


witch's bargain

by pumpkinpickles



Category: Cinderella Phenomenon (Visual Novel)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, F/M, Gen, M/M, Magic-Users, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Modern Era, OK everyone is gonna show up at some point but we'll tag em as we go, Unreliable Narrator, Witches, mythros is like....disaster man but ya know we love a disaster, same w relationships lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:41:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23344165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pumpkinpickles/pseuds/pumpkinpickles
Summary: Mythros is a fellow in emergency medicine. He is a bachelor who stays alone and his closest friend is the head nurse just because she happens to be on most his shifts. He would get drunk on Fridays in a typical fashion, except he's at work. He is the perfect example of a man who knows they will die accomplished and envied, but alone. Nothing is about him is exceptional at all.Until people start dying around him. Because of him. Then his life is ripped from under his feet and shaken like an old rug as he's forced to seek help from an unappealing cast of people, including: his childhood friend, witches, a possessed, a demon and a priest.Suddenly, everything about him is a lot more exceptional than he wanted it to be.(a story where Mythros is the aftermath to a tragedy that he never got a say in. but he's getting it now, whether he likes it or not. but hey, closure is closure. right?)
Relationships: Waltz Cresswell/Karma
Comments: 10
Kudos: 8





	1. first exchange

**Author's Note:**

> here we are ! modern witch au !!! oh boy this is just....fun shenanigans ft. wet blanket mythros bc his life is in shambles but he doesnt want to admit it. oof. but its ok bc he gets a support system and actual friends out of this. i love him, i swear. he's just going through a lot and we have to Acknowledge that.
> 
> really, there's not really a deep plot because we're working backwards in this fic - the grand adventure is over, but that doesn't mean the consequences go unhappened. and when you are that aftermath, well. sucks to suck. 
> 
> it sounds depressing but i swear this is (supposed to be) a fun ride !! 
> 
> please enjoy, and leave a comment if you do !

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ps. my medical knowledge is an amalgamation of whatever i learnt for a month in highschool, chicago med, house md clips on youtube, and the occasional doctor mike also on youtube. but we only see hospital mythros for this chapter so pls ignore any inaccuracies and DO NOT apply anything written in real life. thank u for understanding :"))

* * *

Mythros sucks in a lungful of air. Crushes the mineral water bottle in his grip, unable to hear the cracks of plastic above the ache in his joints, running down his bones like splinters. 

He lowers his head, away from the glaring white light that never shuts off in the emergency ward. His fingers are jittery. His breaths are uneven. His vision is wavering. Mythros curls his fingers in more and ignores the hard plastic edges stabbing into his palm. 

But he is here. He is here and present and will remain so.

Tries to recount the date - 22nd March 2019; the time - 3:07am; the name of the hospital - Angielle Medical Center.

The effectiveness of grounding techniques on a healthy man is dubious. The trembling stops. Correlation is not causation. 

Someone is shouting. An urgent rattle of a gurney follows. Mythros automatically straightens up, tosses the bottle into the bin.

Counting down in his head the precious seconds he has left until the ward is occupied again, Mythros reminds himself - he is the healthy one here.

He is the one in charge.

At nine going ten, Mythros pulls the curtains open just as another patient is wheeled in. Viorica’s already on it, yelling for equipment and more hands on deck, _please._

The words are akin to a jumpstart to his engine, and suddenly it is the rush of - 

Getting this man a type and cross; assessing the level of trauma to his head; focusing on the paramedic’s rundown on his condition; trying his damnedest to get any sort of reaction from the concussed man; yelling at an intern to get out if they’re going to stand and stare; yelling next for someone to check on the availability of the MRIs -.

Amidst the whirlwind of action with one thing immediately triggering another, it is easy to push aside all own medical ailments for another dying man’s. 

The ache gives way for adrenaline, the pain transferred to his shoulder blades in the nonstop performance of chest compressions.

There is something wrong. Mythros cannot pinpoint what. But Mythros is alive, is _alive_ \- and so will this man in Ward Three.

It takes another ten hours in feeling, ten minutes in reality. Once the monitor’s harsh beeps ease into a kinder pattern, Viorica is swift to jump back into the lead role, a quick ‘thank you’ to Mythros’ obliging nod. 

As Mythros hands over the reins, he indiscreetly shakes out his hands and takes a step back. Heart hammering in his chest, less painful than he remembers it had been fifteen minutes ago when he was alone and static buzz filled his head instead of Viorica’s calm instructions to the nurse.

Mythros is - still here. Here, in this room that is suddenly a blur and threatens to tip over -.

Mythros blinks, and the room has righted itself, all bright lights and dissonant sounds of treatment and emergency mixed in a too tiny space. Another blink, and people begin falling back into place, filling the negative space of the room.

Viorica is looking at him, brows knitted. Mythros purposefully looks back at the patient, then at her. She bats a hand at him, mouths, ‘Go home.’

On another day Mythros would have backed right into another ward while maintaining petty eye contact. But today he’s already worked twice his hours. Even a workaholic like him can tell when it’s time to draw a line, even if the line is barely visible and reluctantly drawn.

So Mythros takes advantage of the direct dismissal and slips away towards the doctor’s lounge, biting back the urge to hiss when his knees nearly buckle beneath him. But having dealt with the sudden loss of strength for weeks now - it comes as no surprise anymore, just an unnatural frequency he deals with practiced ease. 

Door swinging shut behind him, it comes as a tired relief to see the locker room empty. 

Not one to take advantage of the solace to wallow in self-pity, Mythros heads for his locker immediately. He quickly changes, then pulls his bag out as he hangs his long coat up. Slamming his electronic locker shut, Mythros glares bitterly at his warped reflection in the metal door, tendrils of pain already returning.

He doesn’t have the time _or_ energy for this. What Mythros does have, is the dependence of a never ending stream of patients, and shouldering their sole hope of survival in this bleak world. 

Ignores the returned strain throughout his body, a fatigue that his mind is finding harder and harder to rule over as days pass.

Stress, lack of sleep, too much caffeine. Answers Mythros can pull out in a heartbeat that all boil down to the beginnings of an unhealthy lifestyle. No wonder the exhaustion was catching up to him.

So, no. Mythros turns away from his reflection, squares his shoulders and heads for the exit.

Nothing is wrong with him.

Absolutely nothing at all.

* * *

When Mythros turned four, his mother kissed him on his forehead and told him not to cross the road without checking each way twice. 

When Mythros turned thirteen, his mother kissed him on his forehead and told him that when Death visited him, she would see him again.

When Mythros was thirteen and a day old, his mother disappeared.

Needless to say, Mythros does not hold anything a negligent parent says to heart.

But one thing -.

One thing Mythros has never been able to shake is his mother’s passed down fear of superstitions. 

So when he finds a crack on his bathroom mirror on the very next morning, it takes everything in him not to balk. Instead, the man takes a deep breath, presses a thumb against the mark and mentally notes to replace it. 

As Mythros gets ready for the day, he ignores the dark clouds gathering. While the usual murder of crows settle near his window sill, he knots his tie. Mythros’ hands don't even shake when he cleans up the salt from the salt shaker he'd accidentally tipped over. 

He just grabs an umbrella on the way out, locks his apartment door and heads for his car. 

Doesn't question how he only just barely stays within the speed limit, or how he slams his car door shut louder than usual. 

Doesn't pay any mind at all to the black cat that crosses his path near the emergency ward’s entrance, the newspaper he flicks through detailing his lucky number being thirteen.

Mythros just pulls on his long coat, and asks the nurse for the name of the poor bastard he's saving today. 

Three coincidences make a pattern, and a string of them make a fortelling, his mother used to say. The words fill his head, reminding him, haunting. 

Someone more poetic would say it follows him as a grim reminder of the home he’s left behind.

Someone like his mother. 

The thought is enough to sour his mood immediately, a scowl overtaking his features momentarily. He is quick to wipe it away before entering the ward, but the mood lingers and looms over him throughout his shift.

“Go for lunch, Doctor.”

Annice has a firm hand on his elbow, while her other gently pries his tablet from his hands. Mythros allows himself to fully scowl at the head nurse, infamous for being the only one in the building who can withstand it.

True to the rumours, Annice only pulls the tablet out of Mythros’ unrelenting grip with a strength of her own.

“You’re scaring the other nurses. Get some fresh air. Take a nap if you need to.” Annice quietly explains. She presses something cold and hard in his hand, winking. “Emergency exit three’s spare. See you in half an hour.”

Then she whisks away, Mythros’ tablet in tow. Dumbly, Mythros looks down in his palm. A key. He pockets it, but turns towards the lifts instead of the hidden emergency exit. Entering the lift, he punches the floor button for the rooftop garden, and glares at the display screen until it reads eighteen.

Striding out the moment the doors open, Mythros releases a slow breath at the lack of people around. Heading to a secluded bench in the corner, he sits heavily, rubbing his eyes in annoyance.

Mythros couldn’t _afford_ a nap or a break, couldn’t she see that? None of them could.

Still, her optimism doesn’t disregard the fact that Mythros was letting his personal feelings disturb his work. 

Balancing his elbow on a knee, Mythros lets his head drop into the heel of his hand with a grim smile. Figures that it would be his mother that was smothering him again. With her words, no less. Coercing, a familiar spell woven with a false sense of security.

After all, his mother was a devout.

Meanwhile, Mythros went to medical school.

Even with years of working with the sciences, Mythros still cannot dislodge his mother’s dramatical teachings from the crevices of his mind. She always had a penchant for the dramatic, and all the tomes and scriptures she surrounded herself with certainly never helped.

Leather, velvet. Handbound with embroidery threads, fraying at the edges with inks sunken deep into yellowed pages. Treasured volumes he never read, but his mother poured over daily, the scent of burning rosemary like her name clinging onto the pages, her dress.

The memory refreshes the headache. Mythros pinches the bridge of his nose and runs a string of expletives under his breath. He shouldn’t have come to the gardens this time of year, when the lavender were still in bloom.

Shuts his eyes, runs his mind over all his patients’ charts. Abnormal white blood cell count, surgery for spleen removal, appendicitis. Bone marrow test, run another scan to confirm for necessity, just signed off. 

Counting off his responsibilities, Mythros settles. He moves his hand away from his face, imagines a stress ball and breathes in time to his flexing fingers. There are surer things in the world than the divine to seek for reassurance. 

Medicine is one of them. 

Which is exactly why he turned to it instead of his mother for answers to the human psyche.

So why would he stop now?

Taking a deep breath, Mythros lowers his hand and stands. Newfound determination unearthed at the unanswerable question, he reenters the hospital.

* * *

Thirteen years ago, Mythros graduated from Angielle University as the valedictorian. He would go on to remain in the cream of the crop in all his years in medical school, earning him his top choice internship at Angielle Medical Center, as well as his current fellowship in emergency medicine.

No one has ever bested him in academics or performance, a fact that many hold Mythros in high regard for. Mythros himself takes pride in his excellence, yet there is something insatiable in him that keeps him reaching further, for more - that will not settle for anything less than excellence. 

When Mythros says it is nothing, many reply that it is a wonder Mythros can still be so humble, so down to earth. 

Well, Mythros thinks, smiles in irksome. Medicine is a very humbling field.

Combined with a heavy dosage of reality, it teaches that some days - perfect scores don’t exist, but failures worse than you can imagine do.

“Maybe you should go home.” Annice gently says.

Mythros crumples his bloodstained hands. Rips off his latex gloves, viciously throwing them into the hazard bin. 

Turns away from the horror scene he’s become uncomfortably desensitised too, but is still just as jarring to know you had a hand in.

Not pausing to nod goodbye to the head nurse, Mythros marches straight to the doctor’s lounge.

The clock in the lounge tells Mythros he’d been standing in the ward for five minutes. 

Wasting five minutes, just staring at the bloodied gurney and bed, the gauze and gloves littering the floor, the slick pools of red soaking into the discarded equipment scattered across the ward. One would never have imagined all this blood to have come from a ten year old child. 

But it did.

Mythros wrenches open his locker, practically throwing his long coat onto the rack at the same time. He is tempted to leave it that way, but something pricks him until he hangs the white coat up properly with a hanger.

If no one else in this building, he had to be the one to stay calm. When, and not if, all hell broke loose, he had to be the one to maintain sensibility. He had to be their last bastion, the ever cool fellow of emergency medicine, rumoured of selling his heart for his skills. 

Mythros scoffs at the fantasies interns come up with. It is easy to be good at calm, at sensibility. It stems from the learnt trait of compartmentalisation, free of charge with the horrorshow internship he’d puked his way through.

But some days, even common sense is not enough to quell the tired frustration of not being enough.

Mythros slams his electronic locker shut roughly. Thanks to the foresight of the engineers, the lockers are not made to break easily, though it still lets out a pitiful creak when Mythros lifts his hand off it. 

It’s the emergency ward, he knows. Probabilities and statistics are skewed in here, extremities and edge cases all bundled together in a handbasket to hell.

The knowledge still doesn’t make the sight of constant death any easier to handle. Especially not after a shift like this, when there were more dead entering the morgue than living entering the front doors. 

Day after day, the deaths only seem to increase, the miracles akin to a needle in a haystack. 

If Mythros was a religious man, he'd even say that Death had taken a particular liking to this location.

As Mythros leaves, he notes with a bitter smile how the emergency room is still as busy as when he entered it the previous night, and turns away before his mind can drift back to statistics and the bone chilling hospital mortuary he’s become accustomed to.

He breathes a long stream of white into the chilly air, and wishes again he had gone against his doctorate’s teachings and taken up a vice. Any vice at all. It’s a wish that he’ll hate himself for wanting when morning comes, but for now, he imagines that every breath is tobacco leaving his lungs and feels the weight ease off his shoulders just slightly.

Reality is quick to sink back into him as Mythros settles into his car, air stiff and quickly turning warm at the flick of the heater. 

How stupid. Mythros rolls his eyes as he pulls out of the lot. Lung cancer and a lifetime of bronchial problems are not worth momentary relief.

The disease that’s slowly killing him is more than enough right now. 

The thought somehow soothes the ache in him, and he clenches his hands that never warm tight over a steering wheel that takes him back to another monotonous rest of night.

A hot shower, a quick dinner, and some light reading consisting of the latest research papers. An unchanging routine before passing out on bed early at 2 A.M.. Just the thought of it alone makes Mythros' shoulders slack.

Monotony has always been something Mythros preferred. People might call him boring, stale. Mythros calls it stability. The reliable security that comes with routine, with every detail clearly known to him, carved by him. 

There is a certain form of ease that comes with that intimate knowledge and having perfect control that Mythros enjoys. 

In fact, with the many unaccounted for variables popping into his life all at once right now, the coming night is nothing short of panacea to him.

A red light comes into view, and Mythros neatly pulls to a stop. 

And as if his life wasn’t hectic enough, in order to get rid of the worst variable - he’ll have to introduce the most unaccounted for one yet. Mythros’ fingers run cold with cut circulation as his grip over the steering wheel tightens.

Choices, choices. To die or to dredge up the past? Mythros is not avoidant in nature, but just the thought of having to meet with certain people in his past and be beholden to them makes him very tempted to choose the former.

Gritting his teeth, Mythros steps on the accelerator once the light flashes green.

Yet any man is prone to prioritise survival, not to mention one like Mythros. His instincts scream at him to swallow his pride, to live. He had worked too hard to get to where he was, only to throw it all away at the drop of a hat; given up on too much to die like a dog in a ditch.

No matter what or who was in his way, he’d fought and persevered, eventually clawing his way to what he was slowly starting to consider a peaceful life. 

So of course he wanted to -

To live.

It was the one of the numerous things his mother had asked of him. It is the only thing Mythros will fulfil for her. So he could hold out. He always did, even through his childhood, even through med school. 

Mythros was as strong as he gave himself credit for, and a little beyond that. A trait both the bane and boon of his existence.

As he pulls into the basement of his apartment complex, he decides that's enough existential crisis for the day, and deftly shuts his mind off to the topic, even if his aching bones do not. 

Once securely parked in his allocated lot, Mythros trudges over to the lifts, as brightly lit as always. Tapping his keycard on the entrance, he mutely appreciates the speed of which the glass doors of the lift lobby close behind him and the lift doors open.

Thankfully, the ride to his apartment floor is just as fast. Mythros steps out as the lift doors reopen, his pace unnecessarily quick, and does not truly relax until he hears the click of his locked front door behind him.

Silence greets him as he removes his shoes and flicks the light switch, a welcome blanket to wash away the hectic buzz of the hospital. 

It follows him as he falls back into familiar routine, replaced only by white noise, his other companionable roommate. 

The rush of water from his showerhead - the hot steam clearing out his tonsils, the streaks of water down his skin soothing the taut muscles from a day’s work and phantom pain; the sizzling of vegetables in the fry pan - enticing and fresh, complementing the low grumbling of his stomach well; the beeps of cars from the late traffic - so far below it could have been from a different world entirely.

Dulled senses slowly being reinvigorated by the start up of his apartment, filling with warm scents of stir fry and shampoo; clean cut, easy, familiar.

It is only halfway through his dinner that Mythros feels his bones begin to settle, his mind stop running a thousand thoughts per minute. Flipping through another research article on his tablet, Mythros stabs a broccoli and languidly looks up.

From his position at the kitchen island, he has a beautiful view of the citylights and clear night sky. No wonder, when his windows are ceiling high and he resides on the thirty eighth floor. The lights wink in a multitude of whites and warm hues, the occasional neon spark of cools eye catching. The view had not been on his mind when he made the purchase, but it is a bonus Mythros can appreciate, and indulges in on certain nights like this one.

A secure highrise apartment, his first valuable investment. There has not yet been a second. 

There are very few things Mythros considers to be a good spenditure. There are many things that are necessary, but so few that do good. 

Or, as he liked to put it - that is not a waste of time. 

Life is more than work, Mythros logically knows. Yet it is hard to come to a compromise with this fact when work is the only thing that he finds remotely satisfying in his life. Besides, he likes his life as it is right now.

Undisturbed, peaceful and so beautifully stable. Everything neatly separated into timeblocks and scenery frames, only ever rearranged but never added to.

In his reflection, Mythros spies his expression softening and schools it back out of an odd sense of embarrassment. 

The pain is now a dull ache, throbbing in the back of his subconsciousness, muted by the comfort of his plain apartment, his plain life.

Taking another bite, the ache subsides. Content, Mythros reads another page, sinking into the night hour. 

In this calm, Mythros can even be convinced that the day that follows must be just as good.

* * *

This is the worst day of Mythros' life.

Bad days are hard to rank when a Mythros has had so many, but this one definitely ranks in the top ten.

The day has been long, and utterly exhausting. The emergency ward is for once, deathly silent. Save for dead end beeps of machines, the scratching of pens over forms, the clacking of keyboards - the deceiving ordinariness of it all masking over the deaths all occupants of the room have witnessed in the past few hours. 

A totaled truck on the highway. Seventy five sent to their Medical Centre, seventy dead. 

Everyone’s hands are shaking, faces pale. Forms utterly drained and moving on autopilot, numbly professional smiles pinned to hollowed out cheeks. Others lucky enough to be in break have chosen to burn their lungs up with cigarette smoke, or hole up wherever there’s space - to lie down, to nap, to cry. 

Mythros walks past another resident with red rimmed eyes and clenched fists, deliberately ignoring them to give them some semblance of privacy. 

He taps aimlessly on his tablet, barely registering a passing doctor’s encouraging pat to his shoulder.

Some days, there is nothing good at all. Some days, you just couldn’t win. No matter how hard you tried, or how hard you worked, Mythros just couldn't be good enough.

He looks up from the death report, casting a listless glance around the emergency ward. All curtains are drawn tight behind shut glass doors of each individual ward. But if Mythros focuses, he can hear the soft beeping of the life support machines working overtime. 

Life's little victories, Annice would say. The tablet squeaks in Mythros’ grip. Failures, Mythros sneers in his mind. 

Only five. And four of them remain in the emergency ward, the other one in the ICU. If this truly were to be a victory, all seventy five would be alive and kicking right now. 

Mythros couldn't even call this a job well done. Not when this is the twelfth death report he is filling in, not when every patient in this room is still clinging to life by a thread. 

Humans could only do so much, his mentors had tried to tell them. But doctors are not expected to be human, especially not one like Mythros. Doctors are made for the sole purpose of saving lives, so if he couldn't even do that -.

Mythros locks his tablet, dropping it to his side and pinching the bridge of his nose. Exhaling through his nose, he mentally counts to ten. 

This isn't like him. Deaths happened - they are an inevitability he thought he'd already come to terms with. He can't remember the last time he got so hung up over it. 

He isn't the kind of person to mull on things. He moved on fast. First from his childhood home, then his mother, then his own old self. A choice made for the better. Those things only dragged him down. 

The only annoying thing was how life just kept _trying_ to remind him of the things he left behind at any given moment when he was unlucky enough to let his guard down. 

Like at every graduation, every other luncheon, and especially when his life hit a lull he was beginning to enjoy.

His past was good for nothing but getting in his way, filling his mind with needless thoughts and distractions. 

The same with worrying about...things. Anything. Including death. Things happened whether you worried about it or not, so instead of wasting his energy and time worrying, Mythros would much rather be jumping into action. 

So no, Mythros isn't hung up about the deaths of today, yesterday or tomorrow, the same way he isn't hung up about his unresolved past and maternal issues.

He is only at work, filling in a bothersome death report and about to make his last rounds in the ward before clocking off. But even if that's what he tells himself, he cannot deny that today he's hit his utmost limit. Motivated only by the solitude that awaits him at home, Mythros makes quick work of the rest of the form.

Once submitted, he flicks his wrist around to check the time. Despite himself, he winces at the very early morning hour. Leaving at an absurd time again. He cannot recount how many times this week this makes it. Annice will not be happy when she sees him leave. But after today's train wreck of a day, he knows Annice won't say anything. Especially when she's working past her hours too. 

“Last rounds.” Mythros says as he walks past her, and she tilts her head in tired acknowledgement. He won't ask the obvious, but still pauses in his step. Annice lifts her head to properly smile at him then. 

“Last forms.” Annice says, waving a hand over her tablet. “See you tomorrow, Mythros.”

Mythros nods, sliding open a glass door to the fourth ward as Annice goes back to her paperwork.

The ward is filled with soft silence, accompanied by the stable beeps of the physiological monitor. Shutting the door and drawing the curtain shut, the ward is blanketed by another layer of gentle quiet. Shadows sink carefully into every crevice of the ward, pillowing the sleeping patient.

Even though he knows the painkillers will not wake the man even in a storm, Mythros’ steps are light as he walks towards the foot of the bed. His vitals look good on the monitors, and his breathing is even. No allergic reaction to the administered medicine or morphine thus far, so it is safe to say their John Doe isn’t going into anaphylactic shock anytime soon. Even with the relatively quick lookover, he seems to be doing fine, and will likely be until he wakes naturally.

For someone in his estimated mid-thirties with x-rays showing previous cases of head injuries, he is very, very lucky to be alive right now. In fact, coming out of a pileup with only two broken legs? Mythros would say his survival had been more a matter of luck than the skill of all the doctors in the hospital combined.

That, and his seatbelt. 

Mythros sighs, looking over the patient’s monitors one last time. He’d save his pessimism for a later date. Or at least, not for one of their lucky five who’d made it tonight.

Satisfied with the lack of change, Mythros puts away his tablet. Looks from the monitors to the unconscious man once more with crossed arms.

No one could have predicted that this man, out of all the other arguably more healthy and able patients who’d been rushed in at the same time, would have been the one to beat all the odds. Staring at the man, Mythros’ lips quirk in a joyless smile. 

Life's little victories indeed. Perhaps Annice had a point after all. 

But how relative a victory is in the grand scheme of things.

Caught by a compulsion unlike him, Mythros reaches out to pat the man on the shoulder. It is smooth but dispassionate, the touch a confirmation that the man still exists instead of any real gesture to provide comfort.

Oddly, Mythros feels relief when he pulls his hand away and still hears the monitors unchanged. Mythros shakes his head hard at the thought. No, not odd at all. Superstitions were just superstitions after all. 

Yet Mythros has no sooner grabbed the edge of the curtain when the devastating screech of the flatline screams. 

Turning back immediately, Mythros rushes towards the man, slamming a palm into a blue button next to the headboard on autopilot. 

Throws his interlocked hands against the patient’s chest over and over as he’s already done numerous times over the night, keeping time to the calm ‘code blue’ repeating overhead, ignoring the sudden flooding of light and noise, focus needle thin and precise only on the moment, on the man, on the monitor that is still screaming, still sounding -

A hand is on his arm, pulling. Mythros shakes it off without losing momentum. It returns, and Mythros scowls, snaps something he can’t hear over the monitors and the blood rushing in his head. It tugs, but Mythros ignores it, refuses to let it dislodge his position -

“-ros! _Doctor Caster!_ ”

A particularly hard pull, a particularly sharp shout has Mythros taking a step back, feet catching each other in their hurriedness, and stumbling another few steps.

Blinking, disorientated, the only thing that rings clear in Mythros is _fury;_ how dare they stop him from saving this man’s life, how dare they manhandle him -

All the words die in his throat when he looks down to find wide apricot eyes glaring back with a ferocity that outmatches his snarl.

The hand has been replaced by arms wrapped around his own. Annice pulls him back even further, and he lets the nurse lead him away, numb from the uncharacteristic sternness. 

They only stop when Mythros feels the cool metal of the glass against his other side, the cotton curtain whipping around his ankles. Yet Annice’s hold only strengthens, forcing him to look back at her unflinching eyes.

“He’s gone, Mythros.” Annice says, direct yet soft. She squeezes his arm in comfort, but with the ice filling his veins, he barely feels it. 

He opens his mouth, but everything he wants to spit back at her freezes over and dies on his tongue, tasting cold and unbearably sharp. Annice squeezes, again. This time, the touch runs pinpricks down his flesh.

His teeth hurt. He loosens his jaw just enough to say, "Time of death, five oh two”. Unable to even shake Annice off with his sudden lack of strength. Only able to dumbly watch as interns and other doctors alike file out of the room, purposefully giving him a wide berth.

As he stands rigid, hearing the ever present ring of the flatline echo in the emergency ward, Mythros’ own heart rate unfairly spikes.

A sharp pain twinges in his palm from where his nails have dug into.

Something is definitely wrong.

Something is definitely, very, very wrong.


	2. second exchange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mythros seeks an old friend's help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so. this chapter ended up waaay longer than i intended so its been split into two parts ! idfk when the second part is gonna come out because im still writing it and online uni is really kicking me in the teeth so LMAO please be patient with me ;_;;;;  
> but for now, please enjoy !

* * *

Just do it. Don't. He just has to toss it - no.

Mythros grits his teeth. His knuckles are as starchly white as the envelope in his grip. It is turned the other way round in his hand, such that he does not have to see the addressee's name to further dissuade him from acting.

It is also why he chose to post it after work. In the darkness of the too early dawn, it makes his decision feel less visible, if not more finite in the silence around.

Yet for all the preparations to make this act smooth sailing, he still finds his body betraying his mind at the very last minute. Chilled by wind, fingers frozen around the envelope, hovering nigh-indefinitely before the postbox. Brain irregardless of his needs or wants, telling him to just _act._ But his body is rigid, refusal strong in his unmoving hands. 

His arm should be cramping. The letter should be posted. He shouldn’t be here at all. ‘Should be’ and ‘shouldn’t be’s fight a noisy war in Mythros’ head as the silence stretches out before him, all the more oppressive with every minute that passes.

A miniature argument plays out in his head, of logic versus his emotional fallacy. He took time out of his nightly routine to craft the letter, then transfer the message to ink. He scoured Facebook, LinkedIn _and_ Instagram for a reliable address. 

But most damningly of all, the postage was a whole two dollars. It would be a waste of money not to send it. He could have gotten two coffees from 7-11. It would _also_ be a waste of his time and agony over the past week. 

To suffer for _him,_ and get nothing in return? Mythros loathed that thought more than sending the letter. More than seeing him again. 

Before any other emotion can override the anger at the imagined scenario, Mythros lets his practical nature loosen his grip. 

He watches with a tight knot in his stomach as the letter slips from his fingers, fumbles through the mail slot and drops into the post box with a quiet ' _flump'_. 

There. Done. Wasn’t so hard. Certainly didn’t warrant - Mythros’ eye twitches when he checks his watch. Certainly _did not_ warrant fifteen minutes of aimless standing around.

Mythros exhales through clenched teeth, closes his eyes and takes a moment to recenter himself. At least it is done. Even if the knowledge of what is done and how it cannot be taken back weighs on him as it always does.

Even more so today regarding the letter.

He could still stop it. Could still go to the post office before work, tell them he made a mistake. Take it from them before it’s delivered and shred it. No one would be wiser. 

Then his fingers splinter with hurt as he flexes them, an electric jolt running down his spine when he cracks it with half turn step towards the back entrance of his complex. He nearly double takes, pausing just long enough for the wave of pain to pass. Though, he still cringes at the numbness that follows each step, travelling up his fingertips and over his chest.

He could, but deep down, he knows he won’t. 

After all, Mythros can’t keep fighting this losing battle. It’s affecting his job, his mental state, his mood. But most plainly of all, he’s just...exhausted. Bone drained of any motivation and will to deal with this phantom pain day in and out, of having to deal with it at all. 

Unsurprisingly, sending that letter, a clear distraught cry for help, does nothing to alleviate the tension. It is nothing but proof that he has reached the end of his rope.

It is nothing but a stark reminder that he did this to himself, and that he is still not as capable as he thought himself to be.

Furthermore, Mythros doesn’t even know if the receiver will be able to do anything at all. If anything, sending that letter is just painful admittance that he has allowed himself to reach such a pathetic state of being where Mythros needs to even consider _his_ help. 

Worse of all - Mythros swallows as he enters the lifts, jaw clenched tight. Worse of _all,_ the fact that he is even considering _him_ means that whatever influence his past had on him is still latched deep into the recesses of his mind; unrelenting claws that refuse to pry off even with so much time.

So weathered and furious with the realisation, Mythros doesn’t even bother taking off his coat when he enters his apartment as he is prone to do, instead opting to throw himself onto the couch heavily. Tilting his head back onto the leather cushioning, feeling his hair fall in shambles over his face like his life is shattering to pieces at his feet, he lets out another long, deep sigh.

People might call him inane or dramatic for acting like a sending letter held as much weight as any other crossroads in life. 

Or at least they would, until they hear that the letter would be mailed to someone Mythros had dropped all contact with two decades ago completely out of the blue with no explanation, before moving across the country. Nowadays they call it ghosting. Back then, Mythros called it what that person deserved.

He still calls it that. He supposes that is why the crafted letter held no apology, despite how humbled his speech was. Mythros might bend on some things, but never break.

Not that the boy he remembered would have turned him away, either way Mythros penned it.

Mythros smiles wryly as a foggy image of the boy comes up in his mind. He cannot predict how he might look now as an adult, but one thing Mythros knows is even if physical attributes shift, personalities do not.

And the boy he knew was always too nice for his own good. The kind of child who would let another have the last candy bar, or volunteer to go last on the swings. 

The kind of child that was kind and good to a fault, no matter the circumstance or person. No matter even if it was Mythros. Or Mythros’ mother.

Mythros’ smile grows tight. His nails scrape leather as his fingers claw in unconscious anger. That was why they had such a harsh parting, wasn’t it. Mythros never liked being picked over another, much less to have his words be taken at lesser importance. Especially when - when he had thought he was worth _more,_ to that someone. 

And the boy had done both. The fact that he had the guts to do it right before Mythros’ eyes made the sting of betrayal worse.

So the boy would answer the letter - either out of kindness, or guilt that no doubt gnaws on his soft heart. And Mythros would either get the answers he needed, or watch him squirm. Either way was alright, and definitely made the thought of seeing the boy again palatable. 

Although -. Mythros pauses, slowly detaching his hand from his sofa, smoothing a thumb over the faint scratches. The stuffiness finally getting to him, he stands to remove his coat. Glancing at the floor length windows, he casts an eye over himself.

Mythros isn’t a child anymore. So neither is the boy. A given, when it had been decades since they last met. 

A tightness returns to his stomach, the uncertainty of how to deal with the passage of time and the change it brings pulling the knot in his middle ever tighter. 

The anger of having to deal with it at all, the frustration that bridges cannot remain burnt and how his mother always finds a way back to him, somewhere, somehow - only makes the knot worse.

At least when he cranks open his mailbox after his overnight shift exactly a week from when he visited the postbox, there is a sole letter waiting for him. It carries the smell of fresh mint, his name and address perfectly calligraphed on the front.

Mythros stares at it for a second, confused and bleary. Realisation strikes him like a lightning bolt, and his fatigue is washed away in an instant.

Once in the apartment, Mythros is patient enough to shuck off his shoes before ripping the letter open with his apartment key. He takes the letter out it at the doorway, skimming over it impatiently before his irritation at the prospect of what the letter means can get the better of him again. 

But the irritation eventually bubbles it’s way to the surface, showing in the creases both between Mythros’ brows and on the letter from clenching onto it too tight. Dropping the letter unceremoniously on the coffee table, Mythros throws off his coat and bag without a second look in it’s direction.

Typing a reminder on his calendar for next Thursday afternoon is the last thing Mythros has the patience to do before heading to the shower.

Once freshly showered and rational, thanks to fifteen minutes straight of staring blankly at the floor tiles as a harsh stream of water drummed down on him, Mythros glances through the letter once more as he wipes remnants of his shower off his face.

Excited words jump at him, exuberant with greetings and pointless small talk. 

Giving up after one too many ‘it’s been so long’s, Mythros drops it onto the table again, feeling an oncoming headache that has everything to do with the too enthusiastic letter, and the sickening feeling growing in his gut that perhaps his leave meant nothing, didn’t convey an ounce of hurt he had felt at all.

Holding onto the silver of annoyance amidst the sick, Mythros stands and goes to the kitchen, eager to busy his hands and occupy his mind with something else temporarily, lest he rip apart the reply.

Rummaging through the cupboards, Mythros reluctantly pushes aside the assortment of coffee beans to reach for the tea instead. Coffee was always preferable, but he didn’t want to risk his sleep. Lord knows he had enough troubles to keep him awake at night already. He didn’t want his beloved caffeine to be added to that blacklist.

On instinct, Mythros reaches for an old box of ginger and apple tea. It isn’t a blend he frequents, since it’s what he drinks only when he’s sick, insomniac or moody. It’s the unofficially named ‘i’ve given up’ tea. But it does it’s job, so drink it Mythros will.

Grabbing a teabag, Mythros plonks it without much care into a mug, then filling it three quarters of the way with hot water. He lets the teabag steep undisturbed as he returns to the living area, briefly debating whether to use the letter as a coaster before putting the mug down next to it instead.

Presses two fingers to his temple and rubs. The headache was the newest addition to the phantom pain family, and the one that annoyed him the most. It came and went in unpredictable bouts, worsening with his mood. 

If not his welling emotions, this headache was certain to keep him up for a while.

Mythros sighs. Three days in a row of poor sleep was already wearing him thin, evident in how he nearly snapped at Annice today. Typically, it would be easily quelled with two strong cups of coffee, but the recent headaches disagreed with caffeine too much, resulting in the doctor’s forced abstinence from it. 

Things are bad, and Mythros isn’t counting on them to get better any time soon.

Mythros trods towards the mantel, a sleek pane of wood hanging above the television. In the middle of it sits a mantel clock, steadily keeping time even after decades of non-maintenance. It is at least half a century old, a keepsake his grandfather had insisted he have when he was about to move back to Angielle for medical school. 

Mythros slides an absentminded hand over it, occasionally letting his fingers trap in the grooves and curls of the carefully carved decoratives that surround the clock face. It started with an unexplainable childlike compulsion when he first moved in with his grandfather, then turned into a habit. There was something soothing about the interlocking circles of random patterns amidst carved violets. Perhaps his liking for the design was what made his grandfather give it to him.

Upon the wide mantle, only a small array of personal items sit on either side of the ancient clock. A carved wooden figure of a bear curled into itself from childhood, a solved metalwork puzzle that got him through stressful nights in university, a ceramic bird gifted from an enigmatic shopkeeper, and a uniquely out of place stuffed kangaroo toy. 

But most standout of all is the scented candle next to the toy. 

Mythros picks it up, looking over it dubiously. For a plain earl grey scented candle, it is quite hefty. But according to Annice, it was supposed to help with fatigue, somewhat. Mythros couldn’t really recall. He had received it one or two Christmas exchanges ago, alongside the toy from her holiday to Australia. 

Taking a whiff, Mythros finds it pleasantly mild. It isn’t too sweet, nor too heady, as he knows scented things are prone to be.

Perhaps it was worth a shot. 

It takes a few tries to get the candle to light. Mythros sets it gently down on the coffee table when it does, careful to keep it far from the letter. A fire really would be the last thing he needed right now.

Taking up the mug, Mythros sips slowly from the tea, now cooled enough to drink without scalding. He settles with the mug in his hands, staring momentarily at the letter, before turning his attention back to the candle.

Staring at the gently dancing flame, Mythros smiles wryly. He must be really desperate, if he’s resorting to candles. 

But he cannot deny the way tension leaves his muscles as the smell of burning wick and earl grey fills the room, eyelids growing comfortably heavy with every passing minute. It isn’t the best smell, but it’s something else, something different. 

The knowledge comforts him in a way he doesn’t think it should, in a way that only someone weak would be placated by falsitudes instead of facing reality.

Yet he can’t seem to find it in him to care, too tired to be anything but appreciative of the momentary respite the candle and tea brings. Taking another long drink, Mythros finds the energy in him to lean forward and return the mug to the table, grabbing the letter on his lean back.

Letter in hand, Mythros perches an elbow on the armrest, sinks into the sofa with chin in his hand as he begins, this time in attempted earnest, to read the letter.

* * *

_Dear Myth,_

_It’s been so long since I heard from you! I hope you’ve been well. I’m so happy to hear you’ve moved back to Angielle. Although, i’ve heard the weather in Brugantia is much better than it is here - hopefully the weather hasn’t been too hard to readjust to. The rainy weeks can be such a drag!_

_I’m also still staying in the Rainswood suburb! All our old neighbours have moved, but some still ask about you. You should pop by the book club at the library - yes it’s still ongoing - Bridget and the rest will be delighted to see you. This year, they’re working on a Christmas_ **_and_ ** _birthday sweater for you. Don’t tell them I snitched!_

_Congratulations on your fellowship at Angielle Med! I know a couple of people who work there, so I might have heard of your achievements in passing, since I’m sure you’re doing great. You’ve always been able to succeed at everything you put your mind to. I just hope you haven’t been overworking yourself._

_Nothing much has changed for me, or Rainswood. I’ve taken over my father’s shop, and the local council still insists on banning public water dispensers. Your old place hasn’t been bought yet, either. We could go visit it if you’d like._

_But regarding your worries: i’m free next Thursday afternoon to meet up and chat. If not, Saturday morning works too. You can text me at (+397)82747609 and arrange further! Hope to hear from you soon!_

_I can’t wait to see you again!_

_Love,  
_ _Waltz._

* * *

On Thursday, Mythros is out the door at eleven on the dot. It’s too early for the meeting at twelve, but it’s always better to be an hour early than a minute late. Especially when meeting old friends or relatives. Nothing like the pleasure of their alarm at having made you wait.

The sun beats down gently on Mythros' shoulders as he steps out into the streets. Despite the disastrous last few weeks, the weather has been nothing but excellent. Sunny days with a light breeze, it is perfect weather for outdoor activities or in. Just a slight twinge of regret hits Mythros then that it’s only now, for entirely non-leisure activities, that he’s able to enjoy the weather. 

Just for that, Mythros decides to walk. It would be a shame to let the day go to waste, and he might as well try and get some more vitamin D. Sun lamps shared between three people in the hospital could only do so much.

The pavement is puddled with sun, rays of light peeking through the overcast clouds. The forecast hadn’t said anything about rain, but Mythros still reaches into his messenger bag to check for his foldable umbrella. 

Finding all belongings accounted for, Mythros takes his first decided step onto the street. There aren’t too many people on the streets at this time of day, most either still in work or sneaking an early lunch. 

Thankfully, that means the streets are relatively sparse, and Mythros can make his way downtown without too many other clueless pedestrians that stop in the middle of nowhere or walk too slow. Mythros had enough on his plate, and hated the thought of dull annoyances further piling the irritation on.

Yet even with the little people mingling outdoors, with each person he passes by or stops at a traffic light with, Mythros’ mind wanders further from the dull ache in his chest to the man he is about to meet.

In his mind’s eye, there’s a hazy image of a child with shaggy black hair and bright red eyes with a gap toothed smile. Needless to say, that would be a gross misestimation as to the person he would have to look for later on. But that was all he had to go on.

Mythros hadn’t been able to find a photo during his vague scour through social media. Granted, he didn’t try very hard, giving up after a year or so worth of posts per platform. But given the fact that Waltz had already neglected to show his face in those past year’s posts, Mythros figured that it would be a pointless venture to search any further back. 

In all honesty, it was the constant repetition in the posts that bored Mythros to a stop. The only things Waltz posted about were the shop, an occasional update on his pets and his daily home life, followed by sunny captions that Mythros had not bothered reading. The few Mythros did skim through proved to be as repetitive as their picture counterparts. The details of the shop’s opening times, stock updates or something breezy about Waltz’s current life that Mythros held no interest in.

All in all, Waltz seemed to be doing well. An utterly mundane life, without any grand ambitions or goals. Stable, consistent, good. A direct mirror to Mythros’. 

Somehow, that nags at him. 

Mythros’ lips unconsciously tug into a frown. He isn’t sure what else he expected from Waltz. He was always the homebody type, so of course he’d be settled down by his late twenties. Still. 

Waltz always seemed meant for bigger, better things, even as a curious young child. Certainly it would be funny to say that with such certainty when Waltz was ten the last time Mythros saw him, but there’s a part of Mythros that hasn’t rested since he saw Waltz’s domestic posts of tea and cats on Instagram. 

It’s quiet yet discomforting, a tiny part of his brain that hums sirens of wrongness at the sight of his childhood friend having found peace and stability in his life. Mythros knew he was petty, but definitely not this much.

There was just...something off about the domesticity that Mythros couldn’t put his finger on. 

At least _that_ was a familiar sensation when it came to Waltz. Someone too cheery and innocent to be really so, someone who spoke their mind without fearing the consequence. 

Someone who acted with the certainty of the world behind them. An assurance that the sun would shine even in the worst hails, that even if the sky fell he would be safe. 

So of course it’s expected of Waltz to be living such a typical life. Someone who grew up with so much emotional security had to. Yet there still remains a dissonance to seeing someone he knew so long ago turn out perfectly as he expected, none of life’s twists thrown his way. 

Perhaps it was his own life colouring his perception of Waltz’s. 

An unfair assessment to an unfair outcome, but what in life wasn’t? 

Pain stabs him in the chest, and Mythros flinches from the suddenness of the spike. He really ought to leave reminiscing after his problem was dealt with. Emotional toil on top of a physical one is not Mythros’ idea of a fun time, no matter what his colleagues think.

Rounding a corner, Mythros spots the telling landmark of a rustic bookshop with a hand carved sign shaped like a wizard’s hat. That must be _‘Fantasy Barns and Nobles’_ that Waltz had enthusiastically told him about over text which Mythros had conveniently forgotten to reply to.

Mythros pulls out his phone to double check, satisfied only when his GPS’ location matches with the one pre-set on Google Maps. It would be a horrible embarrassment to get the wrong location. Mythros notes with much satisfaction that he’s at least half an hour early too.

With nothing left to do but wait, Mythros takes a look around the area.

The bookstore he waits in front of is new. Not a surprise. The bakery that used to be there was already hanging on its last legs before Mythros even moved - the owner’s children had left the nest and the owner themselves were more interested in planning their retirement trip than opening the shop on time. 

But what is a surprise is how everything around has also changed. If one were to put a picture of the street from twenty years ago next to the current landscape, no one would be able to tell you they were the same location. 

It’s been two decades. Mythros shouldn’t be shocked. But he is; an unconscious reaction to his changed hometown. Despite everything, this place _was_ his childhood home for the first thirteen years of his life. 

Barring the cobblestone paths and streetlamps, the rest of the area has transformed. The cornershop is now a commercial minimart, the flower store now a homely restaurant. The people seem to be different too. Yet recognisable just so, in they way they speak and walk.

If Mythros squinted, he’s sure he could name the people behind the receptionists counters, the staff milling about the stores. But they’re all a blur before him right now, everything appearing slightly less vibrant than before.

Mythros’ gaze trails over the unfamiliar sights, exhilaration and discomfort stirring in him in an aching mix. Time flowed endlessly on this tiny street, never stopping. There was no certainty in this world, and especially not for a suburban intersection like Rainswood where people only ever travelled through, never settled.

No one except for Waltz, it seemed. 

Speaking of the raven. Mythros glances at his watch, and raises his brows. Twenty minutes had already passed without him realising. Was he going to have to add losing track of time onto his list of ailments, too? 

Deciding to shelve it off as the aftereffects of travelling down memory lane instead, Mythros checks his phone for notifications and does not think about it. He would have all the time to do so if this meeting turned out to be a bust. He did not want to spend the next ten minutes...worrying. 

Not that he was. 

Seeing no new emails nor news headlines, Mythros boredly looks up again.

Only to catch the eye of someone starkly familiar against the foreign backdrop.

Wine red eyes widening, joy lighting their face as they make haste towards him. Mythros unknowingly bristles, squaring his shoulders and spine straightening up. Steels himself for the inevitable -.

“Myth!” 

The raven comes bounding up to him, and Mythros _barely_ flinches at the childhood nickname.

Cheeks dimpled in a bright grin, ears gaudily accessorised in crosses and gold, shoulder length hair somewhat tamed. His v-neck shirt and roughed jeans oddly pair well with his worn pair of fingerless leather gloves.

In comparison with his pressed button down and slacks, Mythros might as well be going to be a wedding.

Eyes fastened to bright red eyes, Mythros finds his breath caught. Out of hesitance, a momentary uncertainty born from decades of cut contact. But instantly overridden by his socialising skills, polished to perfection and glinting at the ready like a well worn weapon.

“Cresswell.” Mythros greets, not holding a hand out as is customary. 

The man’s smile falters, a raised wave dropping to his side. “Just Waltz is fine, Mythros.”

Ire twists Mythros’ gut. Cresswell was always good at picking up on hints. 

“Waltz.” Mythros smoothly corrects himself. “This is not a cursory meet up, I presume you are aware?”

Straight to the point. Mythros firmly tells himself it is because he does not want to spend any minute wasted today, and not because his skin still crawls with discomfort and hurt at the sight of his old friend’s face. 

Waltz nods. “Of course.” Pauses, braves a pat on the elbow. The familiar action lifts a heavy weight in Mythros, even as his heart twists. “It’s just...so nice to see you again. Welcome back.”

The warmness of the smile, the sincerity in his voice makes Mythros’ eyelid twitch, uncomfortable. He makes a noncommittal sound from his throat, turning away.

“Let’s go.”

Mythros starts in the vague direction of Waltz’s shop, and thankfully, Waltz heads in the same direction. As soon as they fall in step with each other, he slows to allow Waltz to lead them there.

Waltz really hasn’t changed from before. 

Still the same person who walked and spoke with the certainty of a rising sun. Easily taking things in stride, uncaring and untrying for the world.

Unsurprising, as a well loved child. 

Chancing a side glance at Waltz, Mythros supposes the the only thing that has evidently changed is his physicality. 

Mythros doesn’t know if he should feel relief, resentment, both, or nothing at all. He settles on his first instinct - gladness, even if a part of him still holds onto the grudge of his teen self. 

There was just something about Waltz that no one could really hate. It’s easy to see what it is, with just ten minutes by their side, never mind nearly ten years. 

Mythros thinks it would be easy to be bitter, to be angry and resentful for all the things Waltz had and had done. And he is. Very much so. 

So it comes as a relief and a surprise to learn he is not such a small-minded man such that it’s not the only thing he still harbours; that he’s still able to feel some form of relief from seeing how the small child who would follow him around like a duckling has now grown into a healthy, happy adult.

The very same child who knocked on Mythros’ door before he’d even decided he wanted anyone in. Always barging into places and lives not his own, making measured abrupt decisions and somehow, pulling everyone in with him. 

Mythros remembers falling for that charm so long ago.

Of course, with an emphasis on _long ago._

But not long ago enough to forget. With the resurfacing of one memory, others follow suit. But they’re gentler, blunted at the edges with soft touches and no wronged fury to taint those images.

Perhaps that was why it made hating Waltz that much more difficult. Actions always hit the hardest when there was no malice behind it. Like a well intentioned stab to the back.

Once bitten twice shy. Yet here Mythros is again, putting himself in the mouth of the lion. Mythros doesn’t know if that makes him a foolish idiot or a trusting one. Probably the former. Added with a large pinch of tiredness from pulling all nighters caused by invisible aches.

At the very least, the uncharacteristic desire to reconnect with Waltz _must_ be because of sleep deprivation. Mythros does not think he would ever want that if he was in his right mind.

So that’s why, when he catches Waltz’s gaze looking over at him as well, hesitant and oddly hopeful, he frigidly stamps down the excited stirring in his stomach.

“How have you been, Mythros?” Waltz says, with a small smile that ah, is again, the same as always. Mythros feels a lump in his throat grow, and forcefully swallows it down with a furious, indiscreet gulp. 

Mythros is here for business only. He would do very well to remember that. 

“Alright.” Mythros replies, purposefully curt.

An awkward silence resumes. It is almost as unbearable as the sudden downcast over Waltz’s sunny smile. Mythros bites back an annoyed groan. Decides, firmly, that _fine._ Fine.

Twenty minutes having a civil conversation would not kill him. An hour with a despondent Waltz, who would probably be too distracted with Mythros’ moodiness to properly diagnose him, will.

“And you?”

Mythros’ reluctance must not have translated, as Waltz perks up at the starter, widened smile now practically glowing.

“Good! It’s been hectic, taking over the shop, but it’s about time. My dad’s death grip on it has to end sometime. At least now he and mum can finally have their trip.” Waltz says. There’s a hint of growing excitement that Waltz reels in with an embarrassed laugh. “Definitely not as exciting as becoming a fellow in emergency medicine though, which again, congratulations!”

Pride blooms in Mythros, and he squashes down the reactionary blush with a well placed cough. “Thank you. Have your parents been well?”

“Fantastic! Dad’s been mother henning the shop, but he’ll be fine. Mum’s still with the university, but mainly doing teaching now. Her research has mostly been passed on to her students.” Waltz smiles, pauses. 

Glances at Mythros, a touch more hesitant, a touch more familiar in the expression he wears to the emotions whirling in Mythros.

“They’re both away right now, but you should come over for dinner some time. Maybe when they’re back from Rome? They’d love to see you again.” Waltz asks. Hopeful.

Mythros stares at Waltz for a moment before turning away, keeping his hard gaze high and trained on the distant buildings of the street.

“Perhaps.”

Unresolved issues mixed with the unpredictable phantom pains, topped with a forced dinner attendance? Mythros thinks throwing up at the table wouldn't even be the worst thing he might possibly do. 

Even if Mythros hated their son, Edith and Johann Cresswell deserved better than that.

They were gentle people, kind with their hands and their words. 

A mother who would sit her child on her lap and explain her latest thesis, a father who would guide his child through the register and hand him assortments to display. Typical, ordinary people with typical, ordinary lives. 

Even with their backgrounds of a renowned professor and an owner of a self-made secondhand shop, their gazes were level, respectful, to even a child, to even Mythros.

Always with a hand on Mythros’ shoulder as thanks for keeping their boy company, as amusement when Waltz and him brought back scratched knees, as welcome when he began to drop by next door as often as Waltz had Mythros’ house in the beginning.

It is memories of them melded with Waltz that makes it all so frustrating, so hard. Nothing was black and white. Nothing was clear cut and simple in a way that Mythros wanted it to be.

They were Waltz’s guiding lights. So surely Waltz had his reasons. Surely Waltz would not have been so airheaded. 

But Mythros also thought, once, that _surely_ Waltz was on his side. That Waltz was his _friend._

The memories, now sullied with anger and guilt, seal shut Mythros’ lips, thinning them out into a wry, not-quite smile. A clear refusal to explain the indirect rejection. 

Finally picking up on the hints, Waltz nods. His smile crumples a little, and Mythros ignores the sting in his chest that accompanies the look. 

“Whenever you’re free.” Waltz agrees, taking a metaphorical step back. Mythros feels himself wanting to sneer at the restraint, wanting to ask where that attitude was twenty years ago.

He doesn’t, but he feels Waltz shrink away from his personal space all the same, the physical gap between them now an elbow wide, the invisible one extended by miles. 

Waltz really was too intuitive for his own good.

The rest of the walk passes by in silence. Once or twice Mythros spies Waltz’s mouth opening, then shutting as he rethought it. The silence only grows heavier and more prominent with every block they pass, but Mythros remains mute, resolute in his silence.

Eventually, before the silence swells into an overfilled balloon too awkward to pop, the Cresswells’ rustic shophouse comes to view. Both visibly relax at the change of scenery, able to focus on the actual problem at hand.

One of the many shophouses that survived from the older century, it is a part of a terraced house configuration. Yet the two storey shop is easy to spot amongst its siblings from its unique shade of dark magenta.

Atop is a maroon tiled roof to match the painted magenta, with three beautiful ivory double hung windows that look out of the second floor placed side by side. Matching decorative pilasters fill the space between the windows, stark against the natural dark hue of the veranda’s wooden, sloping roof, supported by intricately carved brackets and sleek posts. A well-tended plant standing to the right of the only entrance on the first floor, the opening hours printed in tidy font on the glass door, a metal plate inside flipped to ‘closed’.

Sunshine streams from the slice of sky between the parallel rows of crowded shophouses, the golden cursive of the sign above the doors catching every ray dully, daunted by the shade of the veranda roof.

Even after so many years, the shop hasn’t lost it’s charm at all. 

It’s farther from the main street than Mythros remembered, but also a lot brighter, for such cramped streets. Mythros had half expected it to be a contrasting gloom to the main street’s sunny weather, only to find it simply boringly shady from the tall buildings. 

As a child, Mythros always perceived some sort of cloud hanging about the shophouse, an invisible fog stifling his chest that only intensified the fear of wandering out of his home. It was a feeling only dispelled when Waltz was around, with his familiar grin and tight handhold.

Mythros cannot help the derisive snort. Foolish of him to have been scared by nothing but historical architecture. He supposes it boiled down to a child’s imagination around so many looming buildings, most with dark washes of paint.

Despite that knowledge, the staunch fog still lingers like a memory from the past. But again, it is dispelled with the lightest tap of Waltz’s hand on his shoulder. 

“We’re here!” Waltz smiles, bright and firmly undaunted by Mythros’ passiveness. Mythros gives him a small nod.

“It looks good for it’s age.” Mythros says, the genuine praise an insult to anyone’s ears but Waltz’s. Waltz laughs, bending down to unlock the front doors.

“It better! Cost a fortune to get it fixed up a year ago. The roof started leaking, there was a gas emergency -.” Waltz cuts himself off with a shake of head and another laugh as the door clicks unlocked. “That’s a story for another day. Come on in.”

Pushing the doors open to allow Mythros entry first, Mythros is keenly aware of Waltz’s anticipating gaze as he enters the shop for the first time in decades.

“Welcome!” Waltz greets sunnily, extending a hand into the shop. 

Which is dreadfully shadowed by the darkness of the drawn curtains. Despite the sun, shadows are casted sporadically across the shop, the multiple hangings, fixtures and tall shelves not helping any. 

Mythros does not know what he’s being welcomed into. The darkness? 

Noticing Mythros’ stoic expression, Waltz looks into the shop as well. Expression falling as he sees the same drab scenery Mythros does, he hurriedly locks the entrance, before jogging to the far wall and pulling open a heavy set of curtains.

A sudden bright glare from the windows momentarily blinds Mythros. Slowly reopening his eyes to allow them to readjust to the light, Mythros finds his breath caught once he lifts his gaze. 

Cast in the afternoon sun, with all it’s glory able to be beheld, the shop has transformed. An undeniably mesmerising scene unfolds before him in a crystallic like wonder.

Above, a bold school of fish’s skeletal system swims across the ceiling, hung by barely visible piano wire. Around it, gems and stone cut into stars hang on matching invisible wire, glimmering in the sun in their own personal kaleidoscopic universe. 

Upon the left wall, items of imagination are lined upon floating shelves, linked with fairy lights and copper wire twisted into nameless, swirling designs. Framed pages, pictures and dried plants decorate the negative space, colourful and alive against the silvers of textured wallpaper peeking through the crowded wall. 

Beneath, the month’s display of amber encased insects sits proudly, a medley of orange and yellow lights pooling from the reflection of the sunlight. Alongside, racks of clothing and other hanging items like scrolls are arranged, divided by clean sheets of cloth. Neatly lined against the wall are a few mismatched stools, meant for both children to reach higher shelves and tired patrons. 

On the right end of the main area, rows upon rows of cherry wood shelves are filled with careful arrangements of the numerous items that line the shelves. Mystic and wonder emanates from every display, some carefully binded or stored in glass jars, others sitting demurely in smart organisation.

For the shelves of odds and ends, they are arranged in such a way that made it feel like a never ending corridor, where one leads skillfully into the other, designed for maximum browsing of goods. Other shelves with designated items and specific audiences are clearly set aside, in a more formal arrangement akin to a library’s. 

Where the shelves end, there is an ouija board nailed to the wall right next to the back window. The planchette has been tacked permanently to ‘no’, with a polite sign to not touch it written in cursive next to the display.

With the clever set up, the store feels all at once smaller and bigger than it really was. Cozy amidst the shelves, sweepingly wide before the displays. The faint glow of sunlight catches dust motes in the air, lending to the ethereal nature of the shop.

For a first time customer, it might be hard to pinpoint exactly what this shop sells. But that is the charm of _Canis Minor,_ a hobbyist secondhand store which has everything you could think of and more, the selling point being the owner’s ability to conjure whatever you sought with a wave of his hand. Or more accurately, a trip to the backrooms.

And this is just the beginning. Mythros knows there is a smaller room in the back that held more wonders, a not-quite hidden section of the store for patrons to delight in the find. 

Mythros’ eyes run over every item in awe, unable to stop the outpouring admiration evident in his stunned silence. 

It’s jarring, how the shop is exactly as he remembers it - not in arrangement or shape but in the feeling of belonging and crisp atmosphere of faint, stirring excitement. 

He easily recognises the ouija board and framed photographs, but swallows in awe at them all the same, now entirely different in feeling when next to the newly added elements - the wolf skull perched atop the shelf behind the cashier’s desk, the golden lace woven into mysterious patterns draped across the counter and a few still empty shelves.

Spellbound, Mythros continually finds something new to examine, whether those items are entirely new or made new by a fresh set of eyes from decades gone by. 

Something stirs in Mythros, a thrill rushing through him as if this was his first entry to the shop; his first time, truly, seeing all that it had to offer, all that it could. 

An inkling of something changed, still changing, tugs on the back of his mind, quiet like he’s certain it did when he was a child and this shop still appeared dark and tense. 

Then, he had not been able to tear his eyes away, captivated by the idea of it all, the hidden meanings and secrets he was not allowed to know of.

Now, alight with life and beauty, Mythros still cannot tear his eyes away, even as he’s no longer captured within the spell these mysteries have woven. He cannot give an explanation why. Nor can he explain the welling in his chest, the pain given way to an indescribable ache that is heavy and light at the same time.

Amidst it all, watching Mythros’ wandering gaze until it lands on him, Waltz stands next to the board, one hand still on the thick golden curtain tieback. Other arm tucked behind his back, his wine red eyes are all the more vibrant in the softly lit room. 

Even backlit by the window, Waltz's eyes shine as he tilts his head, catchlights fragmented into multi-colours with the joined reflections from the overhead gems, as soft and sparking as his easy smile. 

Letting go of the tieback, Waltz gestures across the room in a sweeping arc from right to left, smiling widely.

Gesture akin to a proud owner, to a show conductor -.

To a magician.

“Welcome to _Canis Minor_.” Waltz says. The greeting this time louder, pride in his stance and the confidence he holds his arm out with. 

Alive as the shop already is, it wakes further with Waltz’s greeting; the sunlight gets a little brighter, the items a little more vibrant and inviting to the eye - a crystal chimes in the distance, a metaphorical breeze sweeps past Mythros’ feet, enticing as the first Winter breeze. 

A unique atmosphere crafted by the very presence of Waltz, waking the shop with his person alone. Just like it had back then when he was a child, when it was dreary and terrifying to Mythros. But so much less so with Waltz by his side, holding his hand. 

Once again, the fear that the elusive objects might instill is swept away by Waltz, the area softened and lit just with him in it.

The smile that Waltz looks back at Mythros with is identical, too - all eager excitement and pride. 

And Mythros, like back then, can only stare. In bewilderment, in wonder, in exasperation at his suddenly racing heart.

“What magic can we do for you today?”


	3. third exchange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mythros sees some planned magic and meets Waltz's boyfriend.
> 
> And then sees some very, very unplanned magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what the fuck do you mean this chapter alone is 14k words.

Tongue-tied, overwhelmed by the shop’s wonder, it takes a whole minute for Mythros to come back to himself. 

He blinks at Waltz’s question, startling him out of his reverie. 

So enthralled by the atmosphere, Mythros does not realise he is gaping until he hears Waltz speak. The words don’t help either, the shop’s familiar slogan said with such gravitas Mythros nearly gives into the temptation to answer.

Mythros blushes furiously at his near slip of tongue, and turns redder still out of embarrassment when Waltz’s smile widens at his uncharacteristic display of shyness.

“It is...much more impressive than I remember.” Mythros says, forcefully changing the subject. 

“Is it?”

As Waltz takes another proud look around his surroundings, Mythros scrambles to regain his bearings, physically willing his erratic heart to calm.

Utterly mortified by his emotive display, Mythros sternly reminds himself of his goal of the day. No matter how much of a child this place always made him feel, he must remember that he is not one, and should not gape at his surroundings like it is a candy store. He must remain clear-headed. This is not a time for emotions, but solutions.

Yet he is unable to help his continuously wandering gaze that betrays the true admiration hidden in his speech, the longing to simply wander about the store and explore.

Seeing Mythros’ constantly drifting gaze, Waltz cannot help his grin as he walks back towards Mythros. With his approaching steps, Mythros manages to tear his gaze away from the displays, turning back to Waltz and resisting the urge to scowl at Waltz’s beaming smile.

“Nothing less from dad’s pride and joy.” Waltz agrees, propping a hand on his hip. He takes another moment to look around the store again, marvelling. “This was his last set up before he handed it to me.” 

Mythros glances around one last time, soaking in the view once more. Standing right beneath the display, the fishes are artfully angled to appear as one swimming mass. But if Mythros were to take one step to the left, the entirely new angle makes every individual fish model visible. 

And that was just the magic of a single display. 

Mythros’ gaze drifts down the pressed pages and plants, across the shelves and swallows inadvertently. 

He wonders how much more he would find if he was just given the time to _look._

“It’s incredible.” 

“It is.” Waltz says. He runs a hand through his hair, chuckling. “I don’t know how I’m going to top it.”

The frames of every picture matches just so with the framed subject - maybe the colour of a dried leaf, or perhaps the pattern carved into wood identical to the glyph drawn on yellowed paper. Everything clearly chosen with care and presented with intent.

“Couldn’t you keep it like this?”

“No. Then it wouldn’t be _my_ shop.” Waltz grins.

Mythros casts another glance over the interior. Certainly it is eye catching, but there is a certain touch here that he can feel is not Waltz’s, even if it is no less loving. Much like seeing a specimen beneath a glass case - beautiful, but impersonal.

It eases him as much as it uneases, when the owner of the shop is so clearly standing beside him, yet the shop lacks his presence alone. 

To see the shop when it is truly Waltz’s, when it is complete in the hands of a new generation - Mythros is sure it will be an incredible sight to behold.

“I hope you succeed.” Mythros says.

“I’ll invite you to the grand opening.” Waltz smiles. 

Mythros sucks in a sigh and a glare both. Perceptive as always, when it came to his matters. Waltz always was annoyingly so, when it came to the people he cared - no, when it came to the people he was _interested_ in. 

Mythros squashes down the first thought quickly, and pretends his heart did not skip a beat at that realisation.

Taking a few steps forward back to the back of the store, Waltz beckons with a nod. “If you’re ready, we can talk more in the back room. I’ve got everything set up.”

Momentarily, Mythros forgets what Waltz refers to. Then he remembers with a flash the exact reason why he’s even standing in the shop he’s avoided for the months since he’s moved back, and flushes with embarrassment again for the second time in the hour. 

He didn’t think he’d be _that_ thoroughly distracted by a few skulls and knick knacks, pretty as they are.

“Yes. Of course.” Mythros coughs. Waltz does not make any mention of his clear absentmindedness. He only beams again with knowing pride, before leading the way to the next room.

“You can take your time browsing once we’re done.” Waltz says, and Mythros has to physically swallow back the incredulous exclamation at the offer.

“We’ll see.” Mythros says instead. But the chuckle Waltz lets slip tells him that Waltz takes it as an affirmation all the same.

Following Waltz past all the wonders of the main area, Mythros can only imagine what the back room now looks like. 

From his vague memories of the glimpses he would catch through the door whenever he walked by, it is a barely furnished area with neat shelves of books and nothing more. But then - he has never stepped into it, so it’s hard to say if anything he remembers is even right. 

Unlike a usual day, the door to the other section is propped wide open and waiting. Typically, it’d be tucked behind a heavy drapery, only cracked open a single inch for those lucky enough to spot and delight in the find.

The normally hidden door now in plain sight stirs Mythros’ curiosity. 

It’s a plain wooden door with a circular carving where a peephole might be. Mythros’ eyes trace over the pattern, intrigued. Numerous interlocking shapes are enclosed within a perfect double circle, and etchings of what might have been words are faded beneath the carving.

A very beautiful detail to the otherwise inconspicuous door. It draws the eye despite being a simple design. A shame it is usually hidden, really.

Curiosity satiated, Mythros’ attention turns to the interior of the room.

Instantly, his heart squeezes, too tight.

Inside, sheer and silk drape artfully down the walls and in loops across the ceiling, pinned by glowing stars to the ceiling. The warm toned glowing stars contrast beautifully against the cooler hues of the cloth, peeking through translucent material, like shyly hidden orbs in the night sky. Looking closely, embroidered patterns on the cloths glimmer with the shifting light, enchanting against the plain wooden walls. 

However, that is not what entices Mythros’ smile. 

It is the single statement cloth slung casually amidst the shimmering cloths and trailing down the furtherest corners, sleek and stark. Made of velvet-like maroon, Waltz’s favourite colour complements the dark wooden shelves and general subdued aesthetic of the room well. It lends a homely touch to the magical feel of the shop, a comforting corner for wallflowers and enthusiasts alike. 

Leafy potted plants sit in the corner gaps between shelves where the maroon cloth hangs down towards. With clear consideration for the smaller space, there are significantly lesser items in the room, all arranged on the tall shelves along the three walls. 

A few odder choices include a porcelain bell, a bronze chalice and a polished aquamarine. Mythros bites back an amused snort at Waltz’s choices. He was always the kind to find beauty in even the oddest things.

Like the aforementioned, all other items sit quietly, none too obtuse or attractive, unlike the glittering baubles and ostentatious displays of the main room. Yet each holds wonder of their own, an attractiveness in their mundane shine. 

From the elegantly simplistic design of the room, to the personal touch of the maroon velvet across the ceiling, all of it is certainly by Waltz’s design. With the mix of items, glitzy and ordinary both, an all encompassing presence envelopes the room. 

Just like Waltz. 

For the first time, the shop feels like it’s breathing new life, blooming under the touch of the new owner.

Mythros takes another look around, and lets the rest of the tension leave his shoulders.

Apart from the rearrangement and changed design, the small room is just as he remembered. Only instead of books, objects of all kinds now fill the shelves. A cozy nook carved out of the blinding main room, meant for those looking for a place to hide.

Or perhaps - Mythros’ eyes eventually land on the table and two chairs set up in the middle of the room.

A place to find things they aren’t meant to; something secret in the way the ordinarily dull items do not attract your eye at first glance, yet are hidden away as if they should. 

Like the main room, every item is chosen and placed with clear purpose that guides your eye across the room seamlessly. 

So of course by default, the most attention grabbing item in the room is definitely the contrasting furniture set up in the middle of the room Mythros is now staring at. It disrupts the flow of the room, a clear intruder that cramps the otherwise cozy space. 

Mythros feels his frown returning. Cautiously, he walks towards the chair closest to the door, carefully looking over the items placed upon the table.

An oval shaped mirror is placed in the middle, catching his reflection as he looks over it. On either side of the mirror is a dagger and a pocket watch. But very much like the rest of the room, all three items are simple and sparsely designed.

The silver objects glint innocently upon the square table. Beckoning, inviting.

Mythros stares at it all, unblinking and unknowing of how to react to the items. 

It is somewhat unsettling to see such a deliberate setup, even if the rest of the area is homely and comforting. It dampens his mood, doubt returning in coaxing curls from the back of his mind.

“Mythros.” 

At the sound of his name, Mythros tears his eyes away from the items to find Waltz staring at him, his smile dropped. A tight frown has replaced it, concern furrowing his brows.

“Are you alright?”

Mythros makes a point not to look at the items a second time as Waltz makes his way next to him. “Fine. I just wasn’t expecting all this just for a simple consultation.”

Hearing his usual dismissive tone, Waltz’s smile returns. He shrugs, brushing a fond hand over the mirror’s frame. “Most people don’t! But they’ll come in handy, I promise.”

It’s hard to resist the urge to stare at the items again, this time in disbelief. Mythros glances at his oblong reflection in the mirror. Pretty as they were, they still looked no different from common household objects.

Yet so did everything else in Waltz’s shop. So what did he know? 

Mythros bites on his tongue. In for a penny, in for a pound. He’d already come this far, so there is little point in questioning his decisions now. 

“You know, you’d look good with aquamarine.” 

Mythros sharply draws his eyes away from the mirror, to find Waltz rubbing his chin with his fingers. Instead of Mythros, his eyes are on the jewel that had previously captured the doctor’s attention, a fond smile tracing his lips. “I think they’d bring out your eyes.”

Mythros stoutly refuses to acknowledge how the statement makes him flush, as unused to compliments without barbs as he is. 

“Are you trying to push a sale on me right now?” Mythros asks flatly instead.

As Waltz laughs, Mythros feels the tension ease from him minutely. “No. It was just a thought I had.”

“I do not wear such frivolous accessories.” Mythros frowns, thinking of the gaudy rings certain higher ups would flash on their rounds around the hospital. “They’re a waste of money.”

“Ouch.” Waltz grins. “Remind me not to give you a part time job here.”

Mythros snorts with a roll of eyes, making his way around the table. “I would not accept it anyway.”

Waltz places a hand over his chest in faux-shock, prompting another smirk from Mythros.

Placing a hand on the chair before him, Mythros asks, “Shall I sit here?”

Waltz nods, pulling out the other chair. “Choose wherever you’re comfortable. If you want, we can swap.”

“It’s fine.”

As Mythros takes his seat, Waltz shuts the door quietly. 

Once seated, Mythros realises that the chairs are placed exactly opposite each other and the door - the moment Waltz settles down, the door is blocked from his view entirely. 

Mythros doesn’t contemplate on this point any longer than he already has. Besides, his time in the emergency ward has taught him that glass - even from broken mirrors - can make very deadly weapons.

 _Seven years of bad luck_ , a disembodied voice in the back of his mind whispers. Mythros bites back a wry smirk. Better bad luck than dead or trafficked. He might be willing to go along with Waltz for now, but he won’t hesitate to jump ship if anything goes south. 

And with every second longer he spends alone with his thoughts and not the room, Mythros finds more things to doubt. The odd nature of the items, the enclosed room he’s been led to, the weird symmetry of the room. 

In fact, looking at Waltz again, his gloved hands and unfaltering smile, the swirling doubt now coils around his heart. 

There’s a lot of things this could lead up to, but right now Mythros only blithely hopes this isn’t some elaborate scheme to rope him into a cult. Or worse yet, a pyramid scheme.

However, all Waltz does is pick up the knife, and hand it to Mythros hilt first. “If you’re sure you want my help, please hold this.”

Mythros stares at the blade like Waltz had just told him to swallow it. He feels the beginnings of his headache begin to return in a slow wave of throbs.

“Excuse me?”

Waltz smiles, patient. As if he hasn’t just handed Mythros a knife. A _weapon_ for _assault._

“It’s a part of the consultation. But we can stop if you want to.”

There’s something sharp in Waltz’s eyes and words that the blunt blade does not carry. A hidden warning, a silent terms of conditions he makes Mythros aware of in the way he does not force him to accept the blade. It sends a sharp icicle down Mythros’ spine.

Yet without reason, on instinct alone, on pure, stupid emotional _trust,_ Mythros reaches out. 

Just as his fingers are about to wrap around the sword, a sharp pain slices through his chest, making his movements freeze stop, the excitement abruptly cut short with the realisation of what this means he’s _agreeing_ to. 

It’s as if a bucket of ice water has come crashing down on him. 

All the excitement from before instantly washes out. He freezes, eyes darting from the mirror, the pocket watch, then landing back on the dagger in Waltz’s gloved hand.

Mythros drops his hand like a stone, retracting it with a sneer. Waltz’s expression drops ever so slightly, but he determinedly keeps the dagger held up. Seeing the man barely flinch, Mythros exhales through his teeth, willing his anger to settle. Anger would not help in this situation.

But it surges in him, in protest against Waltz’s nonsensical actions and words.

Part of the consultation? What was? Having no proper conversation before arming Mythros, in a sealed room with the most bizarre collection of silver objects on the table?

What was this, the eighteenth century, where consultations involved candles lit at midnight and everyone chanting while someone cut their palm open? 

His headache immediately returns with a vengeance.

A part of Mythros wants to scream, another part of him wants to wreck the room, and another just wants to go home. The only solace Mythros finds in his newly returned anger is how easy it is to put aside the pain of the headache for the rage he feels instead.

Mythros presses two fingers to his temple, rubbing in annoyance. He doesn’t expect anything, he reminds himself. But even if he doesn’t, this is pushing it too far. 

He doesn’t expect any _results_. That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t expect Waltz to do things with decorum and decency. 

And this...ritualistic set up for a B-rated horror movie is far from it.

Even his mother had had more rules and proper manners than this. 

The thought comes as quickly as it goes. Mythros frowns at the sudden memory, shaking it out. Even with all her oddities, his mother would never do something like this. 

His mother was -.

The attempted recall sends another wave of headaches his way. This time, Mythros is unable to hide the wince, leaning into his fingers in an attempt to alleviate the pain.

The room is small with no air flow, his detested childhood friend is sitting across him possibly trying to frame him for murder, and he’s experiencing the worst headache in days. 

Slowly, Mythros begins to feel utterly foolish for even entertaining the idea of seeking Waltz out. For actually having gone through with the actions that landed him here in the first place.

“This is ridiculous.” Mythros says, flatly. Partly about the situation, partly about himself. Lowering his hand to cross his arms over his chest, his brows pull together, lips thinning in a tight frown.

Infuriatingly, Waltz does not appear to be bothered by his abrupt change of mind at all. Neither does he lower his hand with the knife.

Waltz only looks at him with a clear, expectant look in his wine red eyes. “If you called for me, you weren’t looking for a medicinal solution.”

Mythros glares at Waltz. Did he think of him as a child? Of course he didn’t. There was nothing normal about any of this - from the shop, to Waltz, to Mythros’ own ailments. 

Mythros might never have touched his mother’s books, but he knew enough about them from his mother’s odd warnings to glean what might have been the basics. To know what it was she studied. 

Even if he never believed in them. Even if he still does not. Even if -

The feeling of being played for a fool only strengthens with every thought. His throbbing head only drums louder.

“I wasn’t.” Mythros says through clenched teeth. “But I wasn’t expecting you to hand me a knife and not explain anything either.”

At that does Waltz’s grip stutter, guilt and surprise flashing across his strict eyes. 

“Do you still -?” 

Waltz pauses. Then his expression wanes, clears, until the cold solemnity in his eyes melts into warm sangria. “I see.”

Finally, Waltz lowers his gaze and puts the knife back down next to the mirror. Lacing his fingers together on the table, Waltz takes a deep breath before lifting his head and meeting Mythros’ glare.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been doing things in the wrong order. No matter what the circumstance, I should have explained first.”

With an apologetic smile dimpling Waltz’s face once more, the sharpness in Mythros fades as much it intensifies. 

It’s relief at seeing Waltz’s usual face, it’s anger at being treated so lightly, it’s fury at himself for not being able to anticipate this, to even be put in a situation where he’s being played in the palm of Waltz’s hand.

It pricks in Mythros like pine needles, unable to settle even with the apology. So all Mythros does is continue glaring, the stoic silence forcing Waltz to continue.

“What I’ll be doing is a form of divination.” 

Mythros doesn’t need to hear Waltz’s wry chuckle to know that his expression must be folding in on itself. “Just play along - you had to have known it was something of this level if you came to me.

Mythros will give Waltz that. If anything, he was expecting a lot more gospel talk and commentary of...other supernaturals. He eyes the dagger warily. Even now, a part of him expects Waltz to cut his palm open and start reciting Latin.

So Mythros nods, signalling for him to continue.

“Divination is usually performed to tell fates - the crossing of one path into another, or the continuation of one.”

Mythros immediately bristles at that idea. To allow another person to see into his future, whether the idea sounds bogus as all hell or not, is not something he enjoys the thought of. No one should have a glimpse or a say into his future but _him._

Before he can open his mouth to protest, Waltz has continued speaking.

“But I’m not strong enough to read that far.” Waltz quickly reassures, sensing Mythros’ displeasure emanating off him in waves. “However, what I can do is read if there has been any...spiritual irregularities along your fate that might have caused your current state.”

That statement has Mythros frowning for a whole other reason.

“In layman terms, you think I’m _cursed_.” Mythros scoffs. 

The very idea makes him want to laugh. Not for the lack of people who might think of cursing him, but the absurdity of the whole business. Only an utter idiot would bet on a method as intangible as that. Mythros is prone to think a knife to the heart would be a faster and more reliable method of revenge.

But the main thing that really makes Mythros want to just laugh in Waltz’s face is the mere talk of _curses._

How stupid it is that they are two grown men talking about a middle school fantasy. Curses aren’t real. Bad luck and superstitions, perhaps, since they originated from a need to teach precautions and morals to children. 

But curses? 

An undeniable chill wraps around Mythros like a blanket. Biting on the inside of his cheek, he forcefully suppresses a sudden shudder.

No. Those aren’t real at all.

“I mean - yes.” Waltz’s voice tugs Mythros back to the situation at hand. Waltz is watching him with a complicated expression, something caught between concern and frustration. Not directed at Mythros, but...himself.

That means it doesn’t have anything to do with Mythros, so he wisely does not mention it.

“To be honest Mythros, there isn’t anything malicious I sense from you.” Waltz says, a worried frown slowly curling his lips downward. His fingers tighten around each other with a visible twitch. “But you’ve mentioned it isn’t a physical thing either. So hopefully, this can shine some light on the situation.”

“Hopefully.” Mythros repeats in a flat tone. 

Waltz shrugs, not indifferent or helpless to Mythros’ rage, but simply working with it. He smiles haplessly, the expression evoking a twinge of guilt in Mythros. 

It’s childish to act so pettily when he’s the one who reached out for help, but it isn’t exactly assuring to hear that the help he’s seeking may not exist after all.

“I can’t work miracles, Mythros. I know it doesn’t sound convincing, but the people I know that practice this exclusively won’t do a reading for a stranger. And others around here offer eighty an hour for cold readings. I’m the best shot you’ll get in miles.”

Even with blunt nails, his palms hurt from how hard his nails dig into them. But what hurts more is that Mythros knows Waltz is right. He can’t find a physical cause. Waltz couldn’t see a spiritual one, dubious as Mythros is about the existence of that in the first place. 

So Mythros’ll have to rely on even _more_ hocus pocus to get a semblance of an answer. If he’s lucky. If not, it’s back to square one, with Waltz in his contacts now. How fun.

The thought returns his headache in full force. Mythros immediately clutches his head, hissing. Waltz jolts in worry, but it is easy to ignore in the midst of a headache akin to a gong being struck repeatedly.

He should think about it. He should get up, leave, make a chart of pros and cons and sleep on it. Something of this magnitude should not be decided so rashly -

The next gong makes his head nearly split in half. Amidst the white hot pain, Mythros can’t even groan.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

“Fine.”

Mythros spits out the word with as much disdain as he can muster. He can barely focus through the pain, only subtly aware that he has spoken, that anything exists outside of the banging in his cranium. 

When an unexpected warmth cuts through the pain like it is air. The sensation makes Mythros jump, but Waltz’s hand doesn’t move. Instead, it curls tighter on his elbow, steadying him, warm and certain. Waltz’s eyes flash with concern, and Mythros slides his gaze away from the worried look.

“It’s not a solution, but it’s a first step. Even if it isn’t a curse, it should still shed some light on the situation.” Waltz says. Mythros swallows indiscreetly, unwilling to indulge in the comfort that Waltz’s words bring.

The ache slowly subsides, enough that Mythros finds himself able to think even when Waltz pulls back, fingers still resting on his wrist - hesitant to part but knowing to give Mythros his space.

“And if it doesn’t, I’m always here if you need anything else.” 

Immediately, Mythros shakes his head. “I would not bother you beyond your means.” 

Waltz frowns, somewhat sad. “Helping you isn’t a bother, Mythros.”

Mythros only remains silent, opting to pick up the knife by the hilt instead. The silver is cold against his sweaty palm, metal stinging as he picks it up.

It goes without saying that any help he can get now would be invaluable, lost as he is about what he’s facing. But irregardless, any of Waltz’s help beyond his expertise - Mythros does not want to depend on again.

Not any more than he has to.

“Enough talking.” Mythros says coldly. “Let’s just get on with whatever you intend on doing.”

Waltz opens his mouth to object, a clear intent to continue the topic written all over his face. But he doesn’t, not when his eyes clash with Mythros’ stone cold ones. 

Waltz sets his jaw reluctantly, nodding even as conflict flickers in his eyes.

“Alright. But my offer still stands.” 

As does his rejection. But Mythros does not say that aloud, only watching Waltz and waiting for his next instruction. Not only would more talk be a waste of time, the look in Waltz’s eyes also acts as constant irritant, pricking at his insides. He does not need any more reasons to be convinced to leave, and he has come too far to leave from sheer annoyance at hearing his childhood friend preach.

After an awkward pause, Waltz shifts forward, picking up the mirror. He looks one last time at Mythros, still slightly frowning.

“Just so to let you know, this isn’t something I can stop in the middle of. So unless you’re sure you’re ready....”

The silent question begets a snappy, affirmative nod from Mythros. Conceding to his stubborn anger, Waltz nods quietly. “Okay. Let’s begin then.”

Big enough for a small vanity, the mirror is as tall as Waltz’s torso when he props it upright to face Mythros. It must be lighter than it looks, for Waltz handles it with ease. The silver frame’s simple swirling design around the polished mirror contrasts against Waltz’s black leather gloves, glinting where it can be seen between his fingers.

Mythros glances at his reflection for a moment, before fixing his eyes upon Waltz. 

Half hidden behind the mirror, Waltz’s expression has sombered, clear like the day’s sky. 

“Take it slow. There is no need to rush or to force anything. Just focus on what I say.” 

His quiet words hold soft authority, a coercion to follow in the dropped octave. 

Uncertain, Mythros dips his head in a slow nod. Waltz smiles softly, nodding back. 

“Take a deep breath.” Waltz begins. Voice somehow steadier, deeper. Coaxing and grounding both, like the slow drips of a tap. 

Inhaling, Mythros’ eyelids flutter as he strains to listen to Waltz speak. It is hard to trust Waltz after the rollercoaster of emotions they’ve put each other through in one afternoon alone, but Mythros knows he must in order for anything to work.

So he takes another deep breath, and tries to let go. Tries to forget and empty his mind for a few minutes. 

He does not need to forgive or to forget. All he needs is to let go, for the moments it will take him to get an answer.

All he needs is to put it aside. Box it up, lock it, and _put it aside_. For his own sake. To get what he needs. It is a momentary sacrifice that will be worth the effort.

It is not a permanent solution. But it will work for the time Mythros needs it to. 

“Take as many breaths as you need, just try to breathe as slowly as you can.”

Forcing himself to relax, Mythros seeks peace in the knowledge that something beyond his understanding is happening. 

Forces himself not to panic at the lack of control, but momentarily trust, momentarily - 

Let go.

The room dims a little with every inhale, an underwater sort of solace sinking into his bones. As if made aware of the weight of his bones, his limbs weigh down to the table. 

Weightlessly heavy. 

Every limb feels filled with sand, yet at the same time, light as cotton. If he were to lift his hand, perhaps they might swing inhibited, like a doll without joints. 

Except -

For his hand with the knife in it. 

Practically pinned down by the metal, chilling in his palm. Fingers twitching, the pads of his fingers slide smooth down the handle of the plain knife, tapping lightly against the crossguard. 

Another inhale, and the metal grows colder still in his palm. Yet the cold never becomes uncomfortable. If anything, there is a sort of ease that the steadily growing chill creeping up his arm brings. 

It numbs the stinging pain in his arms, quiets the thudding ache in his elbow joint.

There is a slow buzz in his head, a distant white noise that drowns out the pain. It starts in the back of his head, then surrounds, until -

His head empties, filling with white. 

He is barely aware of his closing eyes. 

“Look in the mirror.”

Tilting his head back up from his fixed stare upon the dagger, Mythros belatedly realises that the mirror has been shifted before Waltz, blocking his companion out of view.

When his eyes refocus, he is met with the reflection of himself. 

Faintly, Mythros is aware that he draws in another breath, sharp and quick. His heart leaps to his throat, until -

“Slowly.”

Waltz’s smooth baritone eases his jittering nerves. Still sinking, it is easy to follow his voice.

Mythros takes in another long breath, fingers curling tighter around the handle of the silver dagger. It reciprocates with another wave of cold that Mythros sinks deeper into.

He concentrates on that, on the swallowing atmosphere and the faint buzzing in his ears. Staring into the mirror until it becomes natural, to see himself again across the table.

He is sitting opposite. His fringe is covering his right eye, his beauty mark to the left of his lips, his pocket square peeking out his left pocket. He is there, and he is not.

He exists, but at the same time -

He does not.

A paradox his brain does not attempt to comprehend, only accepts.

“Hold up the knife.”

Slowly, Mythros lifts his leaden limb. Surprisingly, unsurprisingly, he brings it easily to his chest, knife point aimed at the ceiling. 

In the reflection, he does the same thing. Only it is his left hand that bears the dagger, looking unnaturally sharp.

It cannot be told through the mirror that the knife is blunted. His mind tells him as such, but the mirror speaks differently. 

Mythros thinks, slowly, if he were to slide a finger across the blade -

Surely, he could draw blood.

“Mythros.”

The thought roots itself in his mind. 

Impulse makes his fingers twitch. Logic forces them to stay. 

It would be easy. Too easy.

But his other hand remains fixed to the table, even as the chill invitingly crawls up his shoulder.

Mythros is not one to take the easy path.

Yet in the cold sway of the knife and the fathomless reflection, either direction seems possible to fall to, now.

Attention drawn solely to the knife, Mythros hears the silver sing. 

It is a warping song whose notes are the tantalizing bites of cold up his skin. It is a warping song that beseeches, that asks, that pleads. 

It begs -

“What do you see?”

It begs.

“Myself. The knife.” Mythros says, volume and tone perfectly controlled, despite the sudden vicious bite of cold that stabs into his arm.

Eyes inexplicably drawn to the knife in the mirror as he speaks.

Despite the sudden, overwhelming sting in the back of his eyes of saltwater. 

Eyes inexplicably unable to focus on anything but the glinting silver.

Despite the sudden, overwhelming memory of a knife and a book and a tipped over inkwell, staining his hands dirty black, dirty _red -_

Mythros trips over his next breath, and the ringing in his ears clear. Like a popped bubble, Mythros instantly resurfaces from the self-induced trance with a hurried gasp.

Like a drowning man finding air.

The room is silent. It is silent save his heaving breaths, and nothing more.

Mythros closes his eyes, dropping his hand with the knife back on the table. His hand lands loudly and limply on the wood, but the thudding behind his eyes preoccupies him.

No. That was not his fault. 

It was _not his fault._

Mythros sucks in a huge breath, willing the memory away. Physically banishing it as he rubs his eyes with his fingers, more tired than anything else.

Mind swimming with too many sensations and too little all at once, Mythros drops his head into his hand. His other hand lies limp on the table, fingers still curled loosely around the now lukewarm metal.

“So?” Mythros asks, in lieu of dwelling on the sudden remembrance. It would do him no good in this situation anyhow. “How was it?”

Instead of telling him some form of result, Waltz’s hand is back at his elbow, thumb drawing comforting shapes into his skin, other hand nudging the knife away from his grasp. 

The moment the silver parts from his grip, the cold is sucked away like cold air out an open door. The gripping cold releases him, and Mythros shudders at the pins and needles that comes after.

Waltz squeezes Mythros’ elbow again, and Mythros’ eyes shut at the odd ease his touch brings. Unable to think too much into it, he only sinks into the momentary comfort.

“Are you alright?” Waltz asks. Even through the haze, Mythros hears the worry now displayed in full force, not held back like before. Waltz’s voice is shaking, and his voice tilts at the end as it always did as a child.

“How was it?” Mythros repeats, tone flat, the sarcasm dying with his anger. 

Again, Waltz’s reply is another comforting squeeze on his elbow. Despite his clarity slowly filtering back, Mythros allows it to happen. 

They stay like that for minutes, with Mythros concentrating on regaining his thoughts and Waltz waiting patiently for as long as it takes Mythros to do so. Only rubbing nonsense shapes with his thumb, the grounding technique oddly comforting.

Eventually, Mythros lifts his head. He has no doubt that he must look exhausted. Not that it matters. As soon as he gets his answer, he is going straight home and sleeping the rest of the day away.

“So?” Mythros repeats, determined to force an answer out of Waltz.

Waltz shifts in his seat, glancing at the mirror, a complicated look on his face.

“Well -.” Waltz pauses. Then he shakes his head firmly, hand tightening over Mythros’ elbow.

“Maybe later. I’m worried you’ll topple over if you leave like this.”

“Waltz -.” Mythros starts, the irritation overriding his tire. He does not want to be here any longer than he has to. He does not want to be anywhere but under his covers and sleeping the day away, like he should have done this morning instead of leaving his house on a one way trip to wreck open every can of worms about his past.

“Come upstairs.” Waltz gently interrupts. His eyes are insistent and kind. “I have a flat just up here, remember? Take a short rest, then I'll tell you what the divination said.”

It’s clear that Waltz has some idea of what’s going on, but is intent on keeping his mouth shut until Mythros concedes. The brunette’s own stubbornness was the only one that could match up to Mythros’. 

And Mythros knows that, from the hard line of Waltz’s lips to the tight furrow of his brow, unchanged from childhood.

Mythros also knows that unlike him, that stubbornness often stems from kindness. 

Mythros swallows back a senseless tirade needlessly. Even if he wanted to, he doesn’t know if he’ll have the energy to get through the explanation right now, despite the anger and spite of a thousand suns he feels burning in him right now.

For all that Mythros wants to do, he can’t seem to muster any energy to. 

Despite what his logical mind is telling him, to just get what he came for and go, his body’s every nerve is protesting against it. 

He doesn’t want to, would rather die than spend another second more around Waltz now that there’s no more need to, just wants to leave and spend his days in blissful monotony -

Waltz’s eyes are still fixed on him. 

“Fine.” Mythros grinds out. 

“Great!” 

Waltz’s face breaks into a warm smile once more, whatever seriousness he held before giving way to reassurance. “It’s a short walk. The door upstairs is just behind the counter. Need a hand?”

Mythros shakes his head. The headache is already gone, any leftover queasiness nothing to do with the divination, but the consequence of it.

And that Mythros really would rather die than let Waltz know of.

“No.”

“Okay, you can wait outside.” Waltz hurries to the door, opening it. A fresh wave of air floods the room, and Mythros fills his lungs with the fresh oxygen. “I just need to grab the stuff.”

Mythros nods, standing. Waltz pats him lightly on the arm as he heads out.

In his hurry to get up and leave, Mythros does not notice that when Waltz’s hand with the knife passes over the mirror -

The reflection of Waltz’s hand holds nothing.

* * *

Unlike the door to the backroom, the door upstairs is in plain view, and unlocks easily from frequent use. But akin to the back door, it is simply furnished with a different carving detail. 

Made of the same wood as the panels that line the space behind the counter, it blends easily into the grain, and does not draw the eye to it. A smart choice, considering how it leads to the housing upstairs. 

Waltz holds the door open for Mythros, flicking on a light switch with his free hand as Mythros walks through. 

The lights flicker for a few beats before coming on all at once, a row of bulbs along the slanted ceiling upwards. 

The narrow corridor’s steps have a surprising lack of dust or dirt. In fact, along the stairs sit a few scattered pottery vases and bowls, all filled with plants of some sort. Some even spill out of their homemade containers, blooming down the stairs.

“Watch your step!” Waltz says, as Mythros begins to ascend ahead of him. He pauses, waiting till he hears Waltz lock the connecting door before he continues climbing. “Some steps are creaky.” 

Despite the warning, both ascend with no trouble. Mythros notes with some alarm that the array of plants only increases the higher they go, until they are amidst the company of much larger ferns arranged precariously at the landing. Somehow, a very packed shoe rack also manages to fit on the landing, although that does leave little walking space.

As such, Mythros stops a step away from the door, allowing Waltz the space to tiptoe through what little space there is on the landing and unlock his front door.

Waltz chuckles sheepishly at Mythros’ disbelieving stare at the crowded landing. “You’d be surprised how many plants don’t need a lot of sunlight to grow.”

Mythros opens his mouth, then shuts it. Last he remembered, _all_ plants require a good amount of sunlight to grow. Photosynthesis and all. But taking a second, better look at the greenery, the odd way they curl and their particular shade of green-blue under the white light, Mythros thinks maybe he doesn’t know a lot about plants after all.

But what he does know is that no human needs five pairs of specifically white sneakers. 

“Come on in!” 

Taking one last glance at the very packed shoe rack, Mythros turns back to Waltz. He’s holding the door open with his body and foot, inclining his head into the house.

With a polite nod of thanks, Mythros squeezes past the pots and Waltz to enter the housing. 

And it immediately taken aback by how _bright_ it is. 

Mythros blinks, adjusting his eyes from the comparatively darker corridor. 

It’s changed since the last time Mythros was here. Of course, he’d only been here once before, so he can’t say for certain what it is that’s different, but back then he remembers seeing an ordered storeroom in lieu of a cluttered, lived in flat.

On the far side are windows with the blinds fully drawn and shutters open, pouring limitless sunlight into the living room. It dapples across the area, prettily laying patterns of light over the leather sofa, glass coffee table and wall mounted television in the middle of the room. 

It’s surprising how much light it gets, considering that it’s the side that faces the cramped streets. It’s fortunate that the house does as well, considering what a good job the light does of making the small area appear much bigger than it really is.

On the far end right corner is a wooden bookcase with a cotton curtain printed with colourful fruits attached to protect the items inside from the bright sunlight. However, it’s currently pulled halfway back to reveal shelves packed with journals, books and knick knacks alike.

Other items and more plants are scattered across the area or decorating the windowsill, although Mythros finds it hard to distinguish the mess from the decoratives. 

Homely and sweet, yes. Of Waltz’s doing, Mythros certainly did not think so. The Waltz Mythros knew would never leave such a whirlwind of mess lying around. But then again Mythros has never lived with Waltz, so perhaps this was the one weakness of the seemingly perfect man.

Then Waltz groans under his breath as he kicks a fallen parasol, and Mythros thinks maybe not.

Grumbling slightly, Waltz bends over and picks up the parasol that has come to a stop next to a footstool in the middle of nowhere, sticking it back properly into the umbrella rack next to the door. Throwing Mythros an apologetic look, Waltz motions for Mythros to come in.

“Sorry about the mess.” Waltz says with a sigh. “It’s usually not like this, but my boyfriend didn’t think anyone was coming today.”

He maneuvers the area with ease, sidestepping the footstool before nudging it back into place with his foot. As he makes his way further into the living area, Waltz picks up bags and outdoor shawls strewn carelessly across furniture and books clearly left out and forgotten.

Mythros watches with much fascination how Waltz manages to balance all the items in a single arm, while still carrying the mirror from before. 

“It’s...alright.”

Waltz spots Mythros eyeing the growing assortment in his arms with disbelief, and smiles wryly over his shoulder. 

“Woes of living with someone with no standards of cleanliness.” Waltz says, picking up a purse. He slings it on his arm with practiced ease, words more of a friendly jab at his roommate than any form of complaint. 

“Do you need any help?” Mythros asks, brows drawing together as Waltz’s other arm becomes quickly occupied as well.

“I’m fine.” As he speaks, he manages to sweep a shirt over his shoulder with his book filled hand. Mythros’ marvel at Waltz’s balancing act clashes with the need to be polite and help. “I’ll just drop these off in the room and be back with you -.”

A sudden clatter and crash from behind the beaded curtains separating the kitchen and the living area immediately catch the duo’s attention.

“Waltz? Is that you?” An unfamiliar voice calls, as the clanging in the kitchen continues. There’s a few tings of glass jars being opened and shut, and Mythros internally winces at how _loud_ it all is.

“Yeah! I’m back.” Waltz automatically replies, shifting the items in his arms a little.

“Welcome back! Don’t come into the kitchen!” The same someone yells, not at all frantic but sounding kind of stressed.

“Don’t burn the kitchen down!” Waltz calls back, raising a brow when a particularly loud bang of metal against metal replies first.

“I left a pot unattended _one_ time, Waltz!” The voice screeches back. There’s an annoyed slam of a pot lid. “And it’s _my_ kitchen, so i’ll do whatever I want with it!”

“Just because you renovated it doesn’t mean you own it!” Waltz counters with a lazy sort of ease that only comes with routine. 

A man sticks his head out the curtain, blowing a very loud raspberry at Waltz. “Wait till we get married, then it will be!” 

Immediately, the man spots Mythros. Red hair tumbles in disarray around his face, wide green eyes clearly taken aback at his presence. The redhead’s cheeks turn a matching shade to his hair, looking appropriately abashed at being caught performing such a childish act. Although, he’s quick to turn a glare towards Waltz, even pointing an accusing finger at him.

“Why didn’t you tell me we had a guest?”

“I thought you heard us.” Waltz says, raising a brow. “We weren’t very discreet.”

“Well, I didn’t.” The man says, huffing. He turns back to Mythros with a thousand watt smile, batting his eyelashes prettily. “Sorry ‘bout that. I’m Karma. Who’re -.”

All three catch a whiff of something heavily spiced with clove boiling over all at once. Karma lets out an ear piercing shriek, the beads clinking busily against each other as he disappears behind it again. A few hurried stirring clacks follow, then some clicks of the stove, and the undeniable sound of the gas being switched off. 

After a few more clanging noises of what Mythros can only assume is even more damage control, Karma exits the kitchen with a haggard hand on hip. The white blouse and navy palazzo pants he sports are spotless despite the rush, although his red hair is piled haphazardly atop his head, tied back with a dark olive ribbon. 

“Disaster avoided!” Karma grins, as if he didn’t nearly burn down the kitchen again. No matter what he might protest against, Mythros knows the smell of a burnt pot. 

Making his way over, Karma offers Mythros another smile, just as confident as the last.

“Again, I'm Karma.” Karma greets, sticking a hand out good-naturedly. “Nice to meet you, for the very _first_ time.”

Mythros raises a brow at the stressed word. Waltz snorts less than subtly at Karma’s forceful greeting - or rather, _demand_ for Mythros to forget the unruly first impression. Tactfully, Mythros does not comment on it and only takes Karma’s hand in a brief shake.

“Nice to meet you too.” Mythros replies. Karma’s returning handshake is firm, and he beams at the silent agreement they’ve reached to wipe the previous incident from their minds. 

“It’s been awhile since Waltz brought an amenable guest.” Karma grins. He bends forward, faux whispering. “He doesn’t keep good company sometimes.”

“Rumpel flirted with you _one time._ ” Waltz’s voice is filled with so much exasperation Mythros is tempted to break into a smirk of his own.

“Sometimes!” Karma chirps. “Since he has me by his side after all.”

Waltz rolls his eyes so hard it nearly rolls to the back of his head as he waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t listen to him. Please.”

His cheeks are an entire shade darker than his complexion, the unseemingly curtness from the usually mild-mannered man earning a snort of laughter from Mythros. 

“I do not think I have much choice in this matter.”

Waltz breaks into a fit of laughter, the objects in his arms wobbling as he does. Karma’s expression, however, drops into a comical frown at the clear jab. 

With a huff, he turns away from Waltz and back to Mythros. He looks ready to say something, when he tilts his head, squinting thoughtfully.

Suddenly, realisation seems to strike Karma as he snatches his hand back to slap a fist into his hand with a loud exclamation. 

“You’re Myth, aren’t you!” Karma says, a phrase that has Waltz’s face flushing even darker and eyes blowing wide.

Before Mythros can even think about asking him how he knows, Karma has rattled on with a charming laugh.

“You’re all Waltz has talked about these past few weeks! It’s great to finally put a handsome face to the name.” Karma says with a delighted clap, turning back to Waltz. “You should have said something earlier! I would have bought something.”

Suddenly unable to look at Waltz, Mythros feels the heat rising in the back of his neck grow unbearably hot. Meanwhile, Karma elbows Waltz who shakes his head with a shy scowl, blushing hard enough for even Mythros to feel embarrassed. 

“He didn’t plan to come over.” Waltz mumbles, half-heartedly glaring at Karma. 

“You should have considered it!” Karma laughs teasingly, poking his boyfriend in the side. “I would have cleaned.”

“I doubt that.” Waltz replies automatically, earning him a hard elbow to the ribs. 

“I would have.” Karma insists sweetly with a pretty smile. Waltz rolls his eyes again, and even Mythros is tempted to smirk at the sweet facade that no longer works on him. It would take an idiot to be fooled, considering the display Mythros had witnessed the moment he stepped in. 

Karma is a charming man, but Mythros is willing to bet his entire fortune that that man is by no means a house husband. If he sniffs hard enough, Mythros can still smell burnt clove.

“Anyway! More important matters than cleaning await!” Karma declares, whirling back to face Mythros. “Like getting to know our new friend.”

Mythros raises a brow at the enthusiasm, but Karma’s smile is genuine and bright despite using him as an evident shield from his lack of cleaning. 

Walking around Mythros, Karma places the flats of his hands on the taller man’s shoulder blades, guiding him towards the couch. 

“Come, come. Take a seat. Tell me aaaallll about Waltz when he was even more of a brat than he is now.”

Immediately tensing at Karma’s handsy nature, Mythros shoots the whirlwind-like redhead a cautionary glare as he physically shakes him off. 

“Please take your hands off me.” Mythros says, frigid. 

Contrary to his expectations, Karma immediately takes a step back, flashing Mythros another bright smile as he gestures to the sofa instead.

“Sorry. Got ahead of myself there. Take a seat anywhere you like.”

The lack of ego Mythros knows to usually associate with flashy people like Karma makes his wariness wane. Although, his frown still worsens when Karma takes an immediate seat next to him, leaving a gap out of pure politeness alone.

Back bumping against the sofa rest, Mythros stares warily at Karma. He moves lithely with the grace of a dancer, crossing his legs and bouncing an elbow on it. He rests his cheek against his fist, turning towards Mythros with another charming smile. 

Mythros only stares back, pokerfaced.

The interest in Karma’s eyes seems to intensify as the worry in Waltz’s does. 

Noticing his former friend’s distress, Mythros bites back a habitual retort - usually reserved for Annice - of not treating him like a child. Even outside of the hospital, he can’t escape unnecessary coddling.

But smoothly, quickly, as if it is the most natural thing in the world - he’s pulled back to Karma’s unflinching interest with a mere cough.

“So, what was Waltz like as a little tyke?” Karma asks, eyes sparkling. 

Mischief is evident behind the curiosity, so disarming that Mythros finds his internal scales tilt unfairly towards divulging every one of Waltz’s childhood embarrassment that he’s had a front row seat to.

_‘Do unto others what they do to you.’_

The sentence rings clean in his mind, a mantra drilled in him by his mother since young. It is the only thing that keeps Mythros mum, prompting a judgemental rise of brow instead.

Karma laughs at Mythros’ skepticism, sounding surprised and wholesome all at once. His eyes twinkle as he leans in. Mythros appreciates the fact that Karma remembers to keep out of his personal space, even if he does not appreciate his glittering emerald eyes. 

“I bet he was cute. Not as cute as me, of course. But still cute.”

“He’s not obligated to tell you anything.” Waltz says, as if on cue. Karma whirls around to face him, petulantly pouting.

“You saw _my_ baby photos!” Karma says indignantly. “I don’t even get those, so let me hear an embarrassing story or two!”

“I saw your professional baby photoshoot. Entirely different thing.” Waltz replies, shifting the items in his arms to a more comfortable angle.

Karma grins at Waltz, flapping a nonchalant hand in his direction. 

“I won’t be mean. Just go -.” A book nearly slips from Waltz’s grip, but he switches fingers fast enough to hold onto it. Karma winces at the action, and the obvious strain of Waltz’s arm muscles. “- put those away, dear. I’ll keep Myth company.”

Waltz opens his mouth to protest, frown growing worse when Karma gives him another one of his saccharine smiles.

“I won’t do anything to him.” Karma grins with a wink.

“I won’t let you.” Comes Mythros’ cutting remark, even if he’s not quite sure why he feels compelled to have to articulate such an obvious input as this. 

That has both men turning back towards him, one amused and the other still tense, but now contemplative.

After another moment, Waltz exhales in a sigh.

“All right. I’ll be back as soon as I put everything away.” Waltz says, walking towards the rooms. He pauses next to the sofa, eyeing Mythros. “You don’t have to let him bully you into anything, Mythros.”

Mythros rolls his eyes. He is not as incapable of fending for himself as Waltz likes to think he is. In fact, the nagging only further reminds him of Annice, which reminds him of the hospital and the work he is missing to engage in silly conversations like this.

His mood sours like spoilt milk, the corners of his lips turning downwards once more. 

“I won’t.” Mythros says, curt. 

Waltz takes one last, long look at him before nodding. “I’ll only take a minute.”

While Waltz retreats to the rooms with clunking sounds of all sorts following him, Karma folds back into his previous position with a winning smile, seemingly intent on playing a good host. Of which Mythros has no doubt that the charismatic man is entirely capable of.

Whether Mythros could also play a good guest until Waltz returned and could be shaken down for his assessment of the previous interaction is a whole other story, entirely dependent on how tolerable this, Mythros predicts, intolerable man could prove to be.

“So Myth -.”

“Mythros.” Mythros finally corrects, the sticky feeling of hearing the childhood name twice in a day now clinging to him like tar.

“Mythros.” Karma smoothly corrects himself, so carefree it catches Mythros off guard. “Who are you?”

“Most people introduce themselves before asking another that same question.” Mythros says flatly.

Karma pauses. Actually stops and stares at Mythros, gaze blank for the first time in the day. 

It makes Mythros wonder if no one has had the gall to be this curt or rude to his face in a while. Good. A bit of harshness a day did wonders to humble someone, and Karma definitely needed it.

Yet Karma’s expression is carefully emptied as he blinks, then glances towards the bedrooms, as if about to shout for Waltz. However, Karma only scrunches his nose, purses his lips in thought and ultimately does nothing except turn back to Mythros.

This time, the glint in his eye is sharper; the tilt of his lips more pointed in what appears to be apprehension and excitement rolled into one.

It makes the hair rise on the back of Mythros’ neck, the stare intent in a way that is not insulted but _curious_.

“As I’ve said, my name’s Karma. I’m Waltz’s boyfriend, my rising sign is Libra and my moon sign is Leo, I like long walks on the beach and almond cupcakes with almond buttercream frosting. Your turn.”

Mythros stares blankly back at Karma’s blinding smile.

“I am unsure what I can tell you that you have not already heard from Waltz.” Mythros says, instead of copying the overloaded self-introduction the redhead has just laden on him.

Despite the flat dismissal, Karma laughs, bringing his hand over his mouth daintily. “That’s true. I’ve heard a lot.”

‘A lot’ does not bode well. Mythros’ childhood wasn’t poor, but his time with Waltz is not a part he remembers particularly well. Does not want to remember well. 

“Like what?” 

Karma’s smile twists Mythros’ middle, making him queasy with nerves of the wrong kind. It is an odd feeling, to be interested and repulsed by the same person.

“Just silly kid things. Like the time both of you ate mud. Or the time he was stuck in a swing and you tried to get him out.” Karma snickers, bringing his hands together in a clap. “My personal favourite is when both of you accidentally stole a dog.”

“I see.” Mythros says, stoic. 

Of course those were the memories Waltz would cling to. The softer ones, filled with sunshine and butterflies, with days that started with rapid knocks at a familiar door and ended with shared dollar store soda.

So it goes without saying that those are the memories that Mythros detests the most, that makes him pick up the latest medical journal and bury his mind in jargon instead.

Revisiting those memories, Mythros feels the sun is too hot, too glaring to be viewed through rose coloured glasses, dying everything a hated red.

They were the happier times, when laughter trailed after the boys, when they ran amok, thick as thieves. 

They were simpler times, as things always are before the world comes crashing right after.

Before Waltz confronted him, before Waltz broke their promise, before Waltz ruined everything and mother left.

Even just thinking about recalling those memories feels like a knife twist in his gut.

“I think Waltz has shared enough.” Mythros says curtly.

Karma glances at him, oddly unsurprised by his short attitude. 

Figures that Waltz would have warned Karma about their rocky relationship. Still, a sense of relief punctures the tension in Mythros’ head when Karma doesn’t press any further.

“He has been quite the chatterbox these past few days. He was really excited to see you again.” Karma smiles, gentler.

Because he has a chance to resolve his own guilt, while tearing open Mythros’ wounds further? Mythros almost snorts reflexively in derision.

It was his decision to seek Waltz out, but knowing he was not just excited to see him, but looking forward -

The ache in his chest worsens, hollows him out. 

Did he feel no remorse? Or perhaps -.

Mythros swallows, barely able to hold back the flinch as his migraine returns with a pierce to the back of his head.

In the ensuing headache, the anger dissipates, entirely eclipsed by the returning pain in his head. 

“Was he?” The lame reply is the only one Mythros has sense to conjure amidst the pain.

Karma doesn’t seem to notice, sending a brief wave of relief that temporarily abates the migraine.

“Yeah, he was. Oh wait, where are my manners.” Karma pushes himself upright with both hands, making ready to get off his seat. “Want something to drink?”

What Mythros really wants is a whole bottle of painkillers and the next week off. Knowing he can get neither, Mythros only shakes his head.

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

Karma’s eyes seem to light up evermore at the refusal. As he flops back into a comfortable position on the sofa, his eyes never leave Mythros’, very much amused.

Now Mythros is starting to think that there may be something wrong with this man.

Instead of restarting the conversation, Karma pins Myth with another indecipherable gaze for a brief moment, before his lips twist into a small smile, seemingly delighted at something Mythros cannot put his finger on. 

The redhead opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. At the end of the struggle, Karma only pushes his mouth down into his hand and looks askance towards the coffee table, corners of his eyes crinkling.

Already fed up at the unnecessary secret keeping from Waltz, Mythros’ insides twist fiercer at the thought of being made into the butt of an unseen joke by Karma next. 

But when Karma lifts his head there is a glitter in his eye that Mythros cannot think of as malicious - it is filled with many things, not all positive, but there is nothing in his smile that can be thought of as cruel.

"I apologise.” Karma says. “I was caught in my own thoughts.”

Smoothing out his pants as he pulls himself upright, Karma tilts his head in a cutely apologetic gesture. It is so unlike his previous elegance that the unnaturalness shines like a polished blade. 

A very cleverly disguised act with his downturned eyes and prettily curved lips, but an act nonetheless. Oddly enough, Mythros isn’t disgusted like he usually is with the handsier patients, particularly those whose marital status are clearly accounted for.

He feels nothing but a slowly welling interest in the dissonance, the way Karma’s words sound like the grating spark of a challenge.

Mythros levels him with a stare. “Is that so?”

Karma’s eyes narrow at his response in mirth. A flicker of nerves shows in Karma’s momentarily thinned lips, but he is quick to plaster back on a wide grin. Which is no less delighted. 

If Mythros had any doubts in him for his ungraceful appearance reflected in the living room and the lingering smell of burnt clove, they’re easily dispelled with the next tilt of Karma’s head, appraising and curious.

A partner Waltz chose indeed.

“Oh, you’re neat.” Karma says, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Mythros refrains from asking for an elaboration despite the temptation. Despite his silliness from before, Mythros cannot help a sneaking suspicion that the man was weaseling information from him without his knowing, somehow.

That despite the few sentences they’ve exchanged, Karma already knows more about him than most coworkers he meets on a daily basis does.

His grin is alluring, tempting Mythros to speak, to confirm what he has guessed. To offer what he can give, what he won’t. 

There is a spark to it that Mythros might even classify as -

Inhuman.

The moment breaks when the thought crosses Mythros’ mind. 

As if a haze cleared, Mythros blinks rapidly, finding Karma looking at him with concern and sudden anxiety. The clear emerald gaze, now entirely human and much too worried, pinned on him makes his stomach churn.

Overcome with sudden dizziness combined with his headache, Mythros tips forward, his forehead coming to a rest against the heel of his palm.

Karma immediately grips his shoulders, helping to support his upper body that’s now balancing him upon his elbow pressed painfully into his thigh.

“Woah there, space cadet.” Karma jokes, but his voice is filled completely with alarm and - guilt? “Are you alright?”

“Fine.” 

Nausea overcomes him, made worse by his pounding head. His collar is chilly against the back of his neck with cold sweat, his hand trembling against his forehead. Despite his suddenly fuzzy vision, the worry is apparent on Karma’s face.

Mythros’ reply only turns the worry into suspicion and sadness, slowly leaning the man against the sofa’s backrest. Mythros wordlessly slumps into the material, shocking the redhead whose grip on his shoulders tighten for a brief moment in comfort.

“Hey, hey. Stay with me.”

Mythros brings his hand down from his forehead to cover his eyes, pressing into his temples with his middle finger and thumb. 

“I said i’m _fine_.” Mythros grinds out, utterly humiliated at the unnecessary amount of concern over a dizzy spell. He’d had worse than this in the middle of his work days, and dealt with it perfectly fine alone. 

Maybe the headache was an anomaly, but it wasn’t something for someone else to get so stupidly riled up over.

Still, Karma’s hand never leaves his shoulder, only squeezing tighter.

“Hang on, i’ll get you something to drink. I don’t know what’s wrong, but it should help make you feel better.” 

Mythros notes with even more irritation how the worried note hasn’t left Karma’s voice. 

He hates it, the concern, the coddling, the mere thought that he can’t handle something as simple as a headache by himself. That he’s been forced to reveal this side of himself just because Waltz wouldn’t tell him what they’d agreed upon, just because he was weak enough to fall for Waltz’s plea for him to rest.

The frustration only makes the headache worse. Mythros presses deeper, and wishes not for the first time in the day that he’d never stepped out of his house at all.

Better yet, that he’d never written to Waltz at all.

“Lie down if you need to.”

Mythros doesn’t have the energy to refute how utterly rude that act would be, so he just slumps into his hand, ignoring the way Karma sucks in a worried breath.

Karma hops off the couch, hurrying towards the kitchen. As he does, he bumps into Waltz who’s carrying another armful of items out. Karma clasps him on the shoulder as he passes, pausing the raven in his tracks.

“Mythros isn’t feeling well. Should I keep the wards, or -?”

Waltz casts an alarmed glance over at his slumped over friend, shaking his head as he’s already making his way towards Mythros. 

“No.” Waltz throws over his shoulder, kneeling down before Mythros in concern as he puts the items down on the coffee table with a clatter. Mythros winces at the noise, and Waltz immediately squeezes Mythros’ knee in apology. “No, keep them up. It might just be from before.

Understanding floods Karma’s features as he parts the beaded curtains with one hand. “Okay. I’ll just get some water for him, then.”

“Thanks.”

Mythros barely registers their conversation. Every little thing is magnified tenfold, running over his already frayed nerves down to their ends; every shift only makes the discomfort worse, his stomach flip again, his head throb.

Everything feels like it’s spiralling apart, something in him unravelling faster and faster until -

Waltz squeezes his knee again, jolting him out of inky red, staining his hands, his lap, his clothes -

“Mythros.”

Waltz’s voice is soft, firm. A quiet request for him to follow, his hand grounding him to the moment.

“Mythros.” 

The sound is but an ask, a gentle whisper. Mythros opens his mouth, struggles to speak, to tell Waltz to get lost, to tell him to leave him alone, but all that comes out is a quiet groan.

He doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to give himself to anyone again, and his thudding head agrees but -

Waltz’s gaze is steady when he meets it. 

It is only for the second his sight refocuses before he is slipping his vision behind his hand again, yet Mythros feels something in him ease, click back into place; whatever loosened free slide back into position, taking the red with it.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. Mythros. You’re okay.”

In the face of Waltz, his anchoring touch, cool and steady and asking for nothing but Mythros himself, Mythros sinks.

Into the way Waltz calls his name like it is just that - a name, and not a plead, a scream, or a scold.

Into Waltz’s cool touch that seems to draw all his fatigue away. Never seeking additional purchase, never moving, never asking Mythros for more than he is willing to give.

“Mythros. Take a deep breath.”

Mythros’ shoulders lax as he draws in another shuddering breath. Slowly, light filters back into his vision.

The queasiness settles, stabbing pain in his head withdrawing to an aches that pinpricks his scalp instead. 

Lowering his hand enough to cover his mouth instead of his eyes, Mythros slowly raises his gaze from beneath his fringe.

Only to find Waltz looking back just as steadily as before, red eyes swimming with concern and anxiety, yet still with a certainty Mythros cannot understand. 

Does not want to, when he feels something in him slip open again at the thought of it.

A gust of fresh air rushes through the room. 

It sends a shudder down Mythros’ spine, comforting in the knowledge that he can feel something other than the dulled pain in his head. Waltz smiles, small and gentle at the sight, squeezing his knee again. 

With another sweep of the cool afternoon breeze, Mythros feels the remnants of his headache fade away with it.

As his senses slowly return to him, Mythros lifts his head from his hand. 

“Better now?” Waltz asks, voice still low and filled with too much worry. 

Mythros mutely nods, too caught up with his tire to feel anything else about his vulnerability before his former friend. Despite Waltz’s blossoming smile, he doesn’t remove his hand. If anything, his grip grows stronger.

From the corner of his eye, Mythros can see the windows now thrown open, explaining the sudden breeze circulating the room.

Taking a deep breath, Mythros shuts his eyes once more, holding onto it for as long as he can, relishing in the crisp taste of fresh air. 

When he opens them, Karma has entered his line of sight as well, hovering next to Waltz with a glass of water. 

“Here.”

Karma holds out the glass which Mythros takes with a nod of thanks. He takes his time drinking, wanting to put off the inevitable rush of questions from the men for as long as possible.

Once he drains the glass however, he finds himself at a stalemate. At least his mind has settled with the minutes the glass of water has bought him, and Mythros finds himself able to look Waltz in the eye without flinching under the question clear in them. 

However, Waltz never voices it. He only smiles, patting Mythros in the knee before moving to settle down next to Mythros.

Mythros lowers the glass to his lap, cradling it with both hands as he eyes Waltz cautiously, unsure of what the brunette was aiming at. If he was hoping for Mythros to open up himself, they’d stay like this till the end of time.

“Sorry. The previous session must have been too overwhelming.” 

Mythros stares at Waltz. An apology was the last thing he was expecting. 

Especially when he has no idea what Waltz is talking about. Mythros doesn’t think it wise to ask however, when something tells him it’ll only make his headache return. And Mythros really doesn’t want to let go of the moment’s reprieve he’s painstakingly attained right now.

So all he does is frown, sigh and shake his head. “I hardly see what my physical ailments have to do with your voodoo.”

That has Waltz blinking, lips twisting into an exasperated frown. Meanwhile, Karma claps a hand over his mouth, stifling a very loud bark of laughter.

“It’s not voodoo.” Waltz starts. Mythros raises a brow, slightly confused at Waltz’s frustration, which seems to be aimed at something beyond them. “It’s -.”

“It’s an idiom.” Karma interrupts with an unruly chortle, slapping Waltz on the shoulder. “Don’t take it to heart, dear.”

“It’s -.” Waltz flounders for a moment, before ultimately giving up with a grumble. 

Smiling wanely up at Mythros, Waltz says, “At least you’re feeling better.”

Mythros nods in agreement, too tired to question Waltz about the outburst. Especially when it didn’t seem to have anything to do with him. “Thank you for the water."

Karma glances at the empty cup, cocking his head. “Do you want me to get you another? I could get you something to help with your headache too.”

That immediately has Mythros raising a hand in refusal.

If there was one thing he trusted less than pyramid schemes, it was at-home remedies of random people. There was nothing wrong with at-home remedies by itself, but when administered by strangers who couldn’t tell the difference between ginger and garlic - or worse still, burnt pots, Mythros thinks there wouldn’t be much difference if he chose to drink poison instead.

At least with poison, he knew he could die quickly instead of suffering through a multitude of attacks on his tastebuds first. 

But before he can put his refusal to words, Karma has already whisked away into the kitchen. Staring at the back of Waltz’s whirlwind boyfriend, Mythros turns to look incredulously at Waltz who only shrugs.

The acknowledgement that Karma is a man who does what he wants regardless is shared between Waltz’s fond smile and Mythros’ raise of brows.

When Karma returns, it is with a cheery smile and a glass of something thick and green.

“I am not drinking that.” Mythros immediately says, before Karma can even _try_ and sell him on it.

Karma pouts very cutely, but Mythros is not his boyfriend and as such is not swayed by the act at all. The fact that he recalls Annice offering him a scarily similar vial of green gunk before only unnerves him more. 

Just how _far_ was this ‘juice’ agenda reaching?

“It’s just kale juice.” Karma says, holding it out. “Just give it a sip.”

Mythros frowns, backing away just to put physical distance between himself and the drink. “No thank you.”

“It’s good, Waltz can promise that!” 

When the two whirl to face Waltz for backup, the brunette only puts his hands up in surrender.

“I’m not getting in this one.”

Which means it’s just Mythros alone against Karma’s expectant gaze, which only seems to grow in potency with every second he stares into them.

This is where dedicating his life to medicine and the sciences has led him - in a spiritualist’s home, being convinced to do what is potentially hard drugs. 

Still, Mythros has enough willpower left in him to glare back at Karma with as much ferocity as Karma has charm. “I said, no thank you.”

The firm refusal that rings with finalty seems to convince Karma, who leans back with a huff. Yet unexpectedly, his disappointed expression quickly gives way to a smile as he nudges Waltz in the shoulder.

“He refused.” Karma grins. “That means this is yours.”

However, Waltz doesn’t seem to have registered the implications just yet. His stare is still fixed upon Mythros, wide and contemplative.

“He did.” Waltz echoes, as if in disbelief. Karma hums, pushing the glass into Waltz’s lax hands. 

“Wait -.” Waltz turns onto Karma, brows knitting together as something clicks in his head. “Did you kn -.”

“Yup!” Karma says cheerfully. “He’s done it numerous times. Now bottoms up!”

But Waltz only turns back to look at Mythros, looking utterly confused. Mythros feels his expression mirroring Waltz, if not more annoyed.

Seeing Mythros’ lips twist, Waltz quickly dispels any shock off his face, waving it off with an awkward laugh.

“It’s just - People usually find it hard to say no to Karma.”

Mythros can’t help the judgemental look he sends Waltz. “Have you ever given thought to the fact that you might only indulge in him because you are his partner?”

“Oh, trust me.” Waltz elbows Karma in the waist, wryly smiling up at his boyfriend. “It’s not because of that at all.”

At Karma’s reply of a too charming laugh, Mythros decides he really doesn’t need to continue this line of conversation if it will lead to potentially more flirting.

“Then finish your drink so we can get to more pressing matters.”

At that does Waltz register the cold glass in his hand, condensation trickling down its sides. He raises the glass in Mythros’ direction with a grin. “You sure you don’t want it?”

Mythros does not physically recoil from the glass because he isn’t rude, but his frown does deepen. “I’m sure.”

Karma crosses his arms at the exchange, comically huffing. “What do the two of you have against my kale juice?”

“You say it like you were any different about my magic in the beginning.” Is Waltz’s easy reply, before he easily downs the entire glass in one breath.

“Yeah, but I wasn’t an _asshole_ about it.”

“You called my divination bullshit and a money laundering business.” Waltz says, a brow arched. He licks his lips, pushing the empty glass into Karma’s hand. 

“Okay, i’m sorry about calling your magic bullshit. But am I wrong about it being money laundering when you’ve got suckers paying you ninety per hour for a cold read?” Karma grins. 

“I don’t cold read them. I would never.” Waltz protests. Clearly affronted, his shoulders square. Karma’s grin only widens at the sight, and Waltz’s displeasure turns to exasperated fondness. “Besides, fine words from the man who paid me to do that exact thing.”

“Pish posh. Old news.” Karma flaps his hand dismissively. He eyes the assortment on the table with clear reminiscence, tapping a fingernail on the glass. “The magic mirror wasn’t good enough?”

"It didn’t work.”

Karma’s animated face stills suddenly. “Huh. So what’re you gonna do?”

Waltz follows his gaze to the items on the table. Karma seems to understand his silence, even if it does unnerve Mythros just the slightest.

But when Karma turns to him with that same dissuading smile, Mythros feels his nerves leave him. “Don’t worry, Waltz knows what he’s doing. He’s the best in the business with this stuff.”

Karma waves a hand over the items on the table as he says so, plucking the empty water glass from Mythros’ hands and stacking it with Waltz’s.

As Karma walks away, he drops a quick kiss atop Waltz’s head.

“You do your thing - i’ll be in the kitchen if you need moi.”

“Wash the pots while you’re at it.” Waltz says, grinning at Karma’s immediate drop of expression as he backs into the kitchen.

Karma moans, bringing his hands up, figure half draped in colourful beads.

“But my hands -.” 

“That’s what the rubber gloves are for, Karma.”

Sensing that he’s lost, Karma childishly sticks his tongue out. “Fine. But you’re cooking lunch _and_ dinner!”

“I wouldn’t trust you with it.” Waltz grins back, and only grins wider at Karma’s returning laugh.

“Good!” 

With that, Karma disappears fully back into the kitchen. Turning back to Mythros, Waltz chuckles at the grin that’s somehow wormed its way onto the raven’s face. 

“Karma.” Waltz rolls his eyes in fondness, and Mythros tries in vain to squash down the silly cheer that arose from their antics.

“He’s quite a person.” Mythros says, shaking his head.

“Tell me about it.” Waltz grins. 

Now it’s just the two of them once more, the remembrance of what it is that lead them to this living room with a table full of oddities comes quick and easy.

However, now in a much better mood with no headache to distract, Mythros finds it much easier to plaster a neutral expression upon his face.

Facing Waltz, Mythros simply stares and waits.

Waltz’s face contorts in a not-quite smile in the expectant silence, lacing his hands together. He sighs, not a sound Mythros thinks bodes well.

“This probably isn’t what you want to hear, but -.”

“I just want the results, Waltz.”

Waltz’s lips thin, brows furrowing in - worry. Worry, again. Mythros barely suppresses a sigh.

“Waltz. I am not a child.”

“I know.” Waltz replies, immediate. He seems to deflate into himself when Mythros says that.

“Then I want my answers straight.” Mythros says. “Without beating around the bush.” 

From his days as an intern, now as a doctor - Mythros knows that never bodes well. Mythros isn’t expecting any good news, but he doesn’t want the bad withheld from him either. Not even for a few extra seconds.

With another sigh, Waltz answers. “Like I told Karma, it didn’t work. Or rather, what came out of it was inconclusive.” 

Raising a brow, Mythros repeats, “Inconclusive?” 

That certainly wasn’t an answer Mythros thought possible. Things in the world weren’t black and white, but he’d certainly thought that at least Waltz’s...divination was. After all, it wasn’t as if horoscopes in the newspaper left their sentences unfinished just because the sky was cloudy the previous night.

“Yes. We had to stop abruptly, and with what little we did before we stopped, I couldn’t see much.”

That doesn’t sound right, even to Mythros’ amateurish ears. So it frustrates him, that he has to just take the more experienced Waltz at his word for it. That he is unable to challenge Waltz, no matter how much the statement grates on him.

Which is odd in and of itself, since Mythros shouldn’t even know what to look out for in the statement to pinpoint it as weird.

_‘Instincts are a survivor’s natural ward.’_

Mythros frowns at the unbidden thought arising. Every little thing Waltz did seemed to only remind him of mother today.

Still. Instincts weren’t anything to contest Waltz over. So Mythros only nods, already resigning himself to whatever it is Waltz has planned next. 

He’d already wasted a few hours, what was another few more?

“So what now?”

Waltz only smiles at Mythros. It’s a smile full of quiet confidence, his eyes glinting with the same assuredness as it catches in the sunlight. 

“What I'm best at.”

Turning towards the table, Waltz picks up an intricately crafted bird made entirely of pure white paper. The paper shifts against itself as Waltz moves, it’s method of craft unable to be seen through with a single glance.

“Paper?” Mythros says flatly. “You think the solution lies in flimsy card stock?”

Waltz laughs softly, eyes narrowing in an untold secret. He balances the bird against his chest with an arm, held horizontal across his body. Lips curved in a magician’s grin, Waltz puts a finger to his lips.

“Watch.”

And snaps his fingers.

At first, it is just a shift of paper so slight it could just have been Waltz. 

Then it unfurls itself, shuttering paper as it extends its wings, buoyant with wind and light. Paper feathers shuffling against each other, rustling like leaves as it lifts its head, tilting it towards Waltz. Awoken, its beak opens in a soundless greeting, elegant despite it’s eyeless face. 

Its long tail - curls of paper ribbons and long white stripes of white alike - spills from the crook of Waltz’s elbow, fluttering elegantly into his lap. It preens from its perch upon Waltz’s arm - and when it flaps its wings, once, reflecting light against its white body, Mythros’ breath catches in his throat at the majesty of the bird.

Lifting it to his face with easy grace, Waltz’s smile has turned dangerous in the confidence now bared, so unlike the usual concealment he prefers. 

“She’ll help us, next.” Waltz says. “Of course, it’ll depend on you, too.”

The bird turns to Mythros, and he almost hears a trill of a songbird echoing in his head, feels the piercing stare of the sightless bird.

Mythros swallows, his chest tightening.

“I need an object. Preferably something that holds value, but any is fine.” 

Frozen in place, Mythros only stares at the bird, whose singing voice threatens to tip into a shriek. Of warning, of threat, of -.

Waltz’s hand is still waiting, his smile turned assuring. 

But it does nothing to alleviate the sudden twist of Mythros’ heart, the choking way his breath is stolen from him and strangles him silent.

It isn’t from the fear of being hurt - it is something else entirely, something that forebodes an event Mythros does not think he wants to come to pass.

But Waltz’s gaze is still, and Mythros, caught between his hysterics and Waltz, chooses the better option.

Even as his chest continues to constrict as he hands over the hospital’s third emergency door’s key, a forgotten item in his jacket pocket. 

The moment Waltz’s fingers curls around it, the bird stills. So frozen it is that Mythros could mistake it for another paper mache figure, another craft to be displayed amongst the others on the floor below.

Until it burns in a whirling black-green flame.

There’s a clatter of beads, a silent gasp and then -

The flames consume the paper bird whole, wrapping around it viciously, collapsing it into itself.

In a blink, it is nothing but a few remaining charred pieces of paper that burn in the air, disappearing into ash before they hit the ground.

It all happens so quickly, so suddenly, no one can do anything for the minute that follows.

In fact, Mythros doesn’t think anyone even knows what to do.

Waltz is still staring mid-flinch at the spot where his bird was, shock scrawled plainly across his face.

Karma, from his position just outside the entrance of the kitchen, similarly stares at Waltz’s arm with the same shock, jaw unhinged. 

“That wasn’t supposed to happen.” Karma clarifies, so confused his statement comes out flat.

“No.” Waltz confirmed, still shellshocked. “No it - it wasn’t.”

Waltz lowers his arm, smoothing over the skin with the knuckles of his other hand. He is unhurt, but that realisation only makes the confusion grow on his face.

Raising his other hand with the key, Waltz slowly unfurls his fingers. The key sits innocently in his palm, untouched and very much intact.

It is, from every angle, an inconspicuous metal key with a labelling tag.

At the sight of the unchanged key, Mythros’ blood runs icy cold.

“Has this -?”

“No.” Mythros immediately cuts Waltz off, already knowing what must be on his mind. He’s too caught up with the sudden fire that appeared and extinguished before his eyes to think about his rudeness for interrupting. “No, this has never happened before. And it – it’s just the hospital’s emergency exit key. I forgot to return it to Annice a few months ago, but – I - I don’t -.”

Mythros’ hand moves to cover his mouth, bewilderment plain in the way he cannot find any words to say.

Waltz’s frame stills, brows knitting together. “You’re alright, though?”

“Yes.” Mythros can feel his heart beating an unhealthy speed, feels cold beyond belief, but he hasn’t combusted into flames yet. So yes, Mythros counts it as being all right, even if he thinks his heart is about to beat right out his chest any moment now. “Are you?”

“Yes, just -.” Waltz drops his eyes back to the key. “I’m sorry. Please give me a moment.”

Mythros is sure multiple things must be running through Waltz’s mind right now, but he cannot fathom what a single one of them might be.

Like how Mythros cannot fathom what has just happened.

He can only stare at the hospital key, dumbfounded beyond belief.

Mythros’ mind runs blank, with not even pain to distract him.

He doesn’t know what any of this means, what any of these could mean at all. 

But just by looking at Waltz’s expression, he knows the impossible has just happened before Waltz’s eyes.

An impossibility, even for one who works in it, with it.

He’s tempted to ask what next, what _now._

But Mythros is met with a sinking feeling that he’s not getting his answers any time soon.

Or at least, not any time as soon as he’d like.

There’s only one thing crystal clear in his mind, reflected in Waltz’s eyes as his gaze rises to meet Mythros’.

This isn’t a curse.


End file.
